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The  person  charging  this  material  is  re¬ 
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University  of  Illinois  Library 


L161— 0-1096 


FATHER  AMBROSE 

THE  REVELATIONS  OE  MAY  3d  ’68. 


BY 

STEELE  MACKAYE. 

Author  of  “  Paul  Kauvar,  ”  “  Flazel  Kirke,’  ’  Etc. 


COPYRIGHT  EDITION— ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED. 


NEW  YORK: 

THE  DESHLER  WELCH  PUBLISHING  CO. 

1894.  f* 


•  • 

. 


V 


\ 

. 


* 


SI  3 
MMa-f 


‘  *  '  /  /l  '  /  )| 

0  I'  / 


TO 

I*EWIS  MORRISON, 

THE  EOYAL  FRIEND  and  zealous  artist-to 

*  ^VHOSE  STEADFAST  ENCOURAGEMENT 
THESE  PAGES  owe  THEIR  GROWTH — 'THIS  ROOK 

IS  FRATERNALLY  DEDICATED  BY 

*  STEEEE  MACKAYE. 


i 


.■5 


r 


678989 


PROEM. 


What  a  paltry  word  love  is — in  print. 

What  a  potent  reality  love  is — in  life. 

To  escape  certain  woe — beware  of  it. 

To  experience  perfect  happiness  await  it  ; 
if  it  approaches — welcome  and  woo  it. 

L,ove  is  the  Alpha  and  Omega  of  the  ages  ; 
the  beginning  of  all  evil — the  end  of  all  good. 

It  is  the  most  vicious  virtue,  and  the  most 
virtuous  vice  that  tempts  or  inspires  the  race. 

It  is  a  tyrant — that  sets  us  free  ;  a  slave — 
that  fetters  us  forever. 

It  is  a  relentless  liar  ;  and  yet  it  alone  is 
true. 

There  is  nothing  that  it  is  not — nothing 
that  it  does  not. 


6 


PROEM. 


4 


Magician  of  magicians,  it  works  wonders 
that  transcend  all  understanding — but  that  of 
the  heart. 

It  makes  a  fool  of  the  philosopher — a  sage 
of  an  ass. 

It  converts  saints  into  sinners-  sinners  into 
saints. 

It  tortures  the  faithful,  and  fondles  the 
false. 

It  drags  purity  into  the  pit,  and  lifts  the 
lost  from  the  slough  of  lust. 

It  is  the  most  puzzling  and  perilous  contra¬ 
diction  that  consciousness  records — the  primal 
paradox,  and  final  solution  of  the  riddle  of 
-  life. 

He  is  a  fool  who  seeks  it — a  craven  who 
shirks  it — a  cur  who  betrays  it — a  Man  who 
keeps  it — a  Saint  who  serves  it — a  God  who 
commands  it. 


CONTENTS. 


BOOK  I. 
The  Struggle. 


CHAPTER  I. 
—  II. 


The  Authority  for  the  Facts 
The  Discovery  .... 
The  Somnipathist  .  .  . 

Audacity  that  was  Divine 
The  Desecrating  Stare  of 
Vulgar  Eyes  .... 
Humiliation  most  Abjectly 

Human . 

A  Crushing  Creed  .  .  . 

Human  Affection  Versus 
Fiendish  Faith  .  .  . 

A  vSoul  for  a  Soul  .  . 

Which  of  the  Two  .  .  . 

“How  Evidence  can  Lie” 
The  Doctor’s  Decision 
CHAPTER  XIII.  The  Struggle  .... 
—  XIV.  The  Saint  becomes  an 

Assassin  ..... 


—  III. 

—  IV. 

—  V. 

—  VI. 

—  VII. 

—  VIII. 

—  IX. 

—  X. 

—  XI. 

—  XII. 


Page 

9 

15 

23 

29 

37 

52 

60 

66 

73 

79 

93 

98 

107 

1 16 


8 


CONTENTS 


BOOK  II. 

The  Triumph. 

CHAPTER  1. 

Sub  Silentio . 

125 

—  II. 

The  Awakening  .... 

132 

—  III. 

Stevna  . 

140 

—  IV. 

The  Bronze  Chest  .  .  . 

156 

—  V. 

The  Apparition  .  .  .  * . 

163 

—  VI. 

Eove  that  conquers  Scorn 

171 

—  VII. 

The  Resuscitation  of  Am- 

brose  . 

1S6 

—  VIII. 

The  Fatal  Letter .... 

194 

—  IX. 

The  Last  Command  . 

221 

—  X. 

The  Police,  the  Priests,  the 

Doctor  and  the  Dead 

Hound . 

240 

—  XI. 

The  Surgeon ’s  Triumph  . 

260 

—  XII. 

A  Priest  and  yet  a  Parent 

267 

—  XIII. 

The  Mother  Speaks 

275 

—  XIV. 

The  Mission  of  the  New 

. 279 


Avatar 


THE  REVELATIONS  OE  MAY  30,  1868. 


BOOK  I. 


THE  STRUGGLE. 


CHAPTER  I. 


THE  AUTHORITY  FOR  THE  FACTS. 


At  last  I  had  captured  him,  and  he  was 
forced  to  unfold  the  whole  affair. 

He  had  excited  intense  curiosity,  by  de¬ 
claring  he  knew  a  story  of  real  life  surpassing 
in  surprises  the  most  audacious  inventions 
that  fiction  had  ever  revealed.  He  had 
promised  a  hundred  times  that  I  should  hear 
of  these  startling  realities,  but  had  escaped  the 
keeping  of  his  word  by  excuses  so  unimpeach¬ 
able  that  I  was  forced  to  exercise  a  patience 
I  did  not  .suppose  that  I  possessed. 


io 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


Now,  thanks  to  my  own  cleverness,  the 
time  for  my  reward  had  come  and  I  was  de¬ 
termined  that  this  opportunity  should  not  pass 
without  the  narrative  I  had  conspired  so  cun¬ 
ningly  to  secure. 

I  was  living  in  a  charming  chateau  near 
Fontainebleau.  The  doctor  had  received  a 
telegram  calling  him  imperatively  to  my  side. 
He  came,  supposing  that  I  was  at  the  point  of 
death,  and  found  me  awaiting  his  companion¬ 
ship  at  the  daintiest  dinner  ever  prepared  by 
one  of  the  foremost  chefs  of  Paris. 

I  knew  the  doctor’s  weakness.  But  for  his 
delight  in  a  rare  dinner  I  .should  not  have 
dared  to  play  him  such  a  trick.  Even  with 
the  wonder  I  had  planned  to  offer,  I  trembled 
at  my  own  temerity  in  attempting  such  a  ruse. 

He  was  the  most  distinguished  physician 
of  the  day;  one  of  those  imperial  types  who 
reach  without  effort  the  highest  rank  in  any 
walk  of  life  which  they  select. 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


II 


His  character,  too,  was  as  glorious  as  his 
genius. 

Rank  and  wealth  sought  his  services  with 
eagerness,  and  danced  attendance  on  his  ease, 
but  suffering  poverty  never  called  on  his  great 
heart  in  vain,  nor  waited  an  instant,  either  for 
his  own  convenience  or  for  his  favoring  ser¬ 
vice  of  the  rich. 

The  feast  succeeded,  proving  worthy  of  the 
great  artist  who  deigned  to  favor  us  with  his 
creative  skill.  When  we  had  exhausted  all 
the  gastronomic  delights  of  his  chef  d’ oeuvre 
we  lay  back  in  lounging  chairs  before  a  brill¬ 
iant  fire,  and  smoked  regalias  which  a  Sultan 
might  have  envied.  Then  it  was  that  the 
Scientist  began  his  long  awaited  revelations, 
and  with  the  following  enigmatic  words  : 

“  My  friend,  I  have  been  patient  with  the 
amusing  device  by  which  you  have  endeavored 
to  deprive  me  of  any  excuse  for  further 
silence,  because  I  have  been  more  anxious  to 


12 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


secure  an  opportunity  to  speak  than  you  could 
have  been  to  obtain  a  chance  to  listen. 

The  time  has  come  when  the  truth  ought  to 
be  told,  but  I  am  not  the  one  who  should  first 
communicate  to  the  public  a  matter  of  such 
moment  to  mankind.  To  scientific  literature 
I  have,  and  shall,  contribute;  but  historic 
statement  requires  a  faculty  which  I  do  not 
possess,  and  therefore  even  though  I  were 
not  personally  associated  with  the  circum¬ 
stances,  I  should  feel  bound  to  entrust  to 
another  brain  than  my  own  the  initial  form¬ 
ulation  of  the  almost  incredible  facts,  which 
first  commanded  my  respect  for  phenomena  I 
once  despised,  but  which  I  have  since  learned 
are  of  primal  importance  to  the  progress  of 
the  race. 

You  are  the  man  whom  I  have  selected  to 
afford  the  world  its  first  glimpse  of  the  light  to 
come.  For  years  I  have  witnessed  your  ca¬ 
reer,  and  it  has  begotten  a  firm  faith  in  the 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


13 


unpretentious  sincerity  of  your  art.  But  for 
this  confidence  I  should  not  permit  you  to 
hear  the  history  of  which  I  gave  you  a  hint  so 
many  months  ago.  I  know  that  you  are  a 
thorough  man  of  the  world,  but  if  you  are  not 
sufficiently  surfeited  with  its  shams,  and  eman¬ 
cipated  from  its  opinions,  to  be  wholly  indif¬ 
ferent  to  excommunication  from  any  and  every 
social  circle,  you  would  be  exceedingly  unwi.se 
fto  undertake  the  dangerous  task  of  heralding 
<a  new  dawn. 

Courage  and  catholicity  of  spirit  are  nec¬ 
essary  to  deal  justly  with  the  radical  views, 
fanatical  antagonisms  and  sacred  assertions 
involved  in  the  monstrous  strangeness  of  my 
i  story.  To  learn  what  I  mean  you  must  give 
feme  your  word  of  honor  that  you  will  devote 
*y our  pen  to  proclaiming  with  unflinching  free- 
Idom  of  diction  the  facts  I  unfold,  but  you  must 
assume  all  responsibility  for  any  consequences 
|  resulting  to  yourself  from  the  publication  of 


I 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 

the  startling  statements  I  shall  make.  At  the 
right  instant  I  shall  stand  at  your  side  and 
proudly  share  all  you  may  suffer,  but  unless 
you  are  confident  that  you  contemn  contume¬ 
ly,  forbid  me  now  and  forever  to  speak  of 

this  affair.” 

One  year  has  passed  since  the  memorable 
night  when  this  matter  was  committed  to  my 
care.  It  has  taken  many  months  to  study  the 
astounding  documents  and  to  become  acquaint.  ,  | 
ed  with  the  exceptional  personages  connecter 
with  the  occurrences  which  it  is  now  my  dut>  jf. 
to  relate.  Names  have  been  changed  and  such  I 
modifications  of  time  and  place  adopted  as  arej 
necessary  to  protect  the  living  from  discover^ 
and  attack.  As  time  ripens  concealments  wil 
cease  and  those  whom  destiny  dedicates  to  th<  J 
highest  service  of  man  will  publicly  appear,* 
For  the  present  it  is  enough  to  state  that  thefi 
authority  for  the  facts  herein  set  forth  is  a« 
character  whose  name  is  a  synonym  for  truth, 
in  the  social  as  well  as  the  scientific  world. 


i 


15 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  DISCOVERY. 

One  day  in  his  life  Ambrose  Bonnard  will 
never  forget. 

That  day  is  the  3d  of  May,  1868, — a  day 
when  the  monotonous  routine  of  his  simple 
existence  was  interrupted  by  an  experience  so 
(Overwhelming  that  a  thousand  untouched  re¬ 
cesses  of  his  being  awoke  to  consciousness, 
and  wrought  with  ruinous  rapidity  a  profound 
destruction  of  the  foundations  of  his  faith. 

The  vigor  of  a  virile  spring  quivered  in  the 
<  air,  its  irrepressible  delight  scintillating 
i*  throughout  the  brilliant  .spaces  of  a  cloudless 
/  sky. 

The  breasts  of  the  birds,  bursting  writh  ex- 
!  uberant  bliss,  greeted  the  glory  of  the  after- 
j  noon  with  gushes  of  gay  song. 


i6 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


The  Champs  Elysees  was  crowded  with  car¬ 
riages  filled  with  beauty  that  dazzled  and  faces 
that  beamed.  Its  walks  were  packed  with  ani¬ 
mated  masses  of  humanity,  palpitating  with 
the  happy  hopes  awakened  by  that  early  sea¬ 
son  of  the  year,  which  sows  so  freely  the  bit¬ 
ter  seeds  of  illusion  in  the  receptive  soil  of 
youth. 

The  good  young  Father  Ambrose  was  stroll¬ 
ing  along  the  Rue  de  la  Faizanderie,  in  Pas- 
sy,  toward  that  broad  avenue  through  which 
the  merry  multitude  of  Paris  pours  into  the 
Bois  de  Boulogne. 

He  was  lost  in  a  deep,  delicious  dream  :  a, 
dream  of  happiness  for  others — the  only  hap-j 
piness  his  chastened  life  had  ever  known,  th^ 
only  happiness  for  which  his  lowly  spirit  hac 
ever  hoped  or  prayed. 

He  had  just  united  by  the  holy  sacrament 
of  marriage  two  lives,  whose  souls  by  the  in¬ 
visible  sacrament  of  love,  were  already  made 


one. 


FATHER  AMBROSE.  jy 

Absorbed  in  thoughts  of  the  unutterable 
happiness  of  these  newly-wedded  lives,  and 
keenly  alive  to  the  cheering  atmosphere  of  joy- 
winch  surrounded  him,  the  priest  passed  with 
a  pensive  smile  upon  his  lips,  a  charming  villa 

among  a  mass  of  vines  behind  a  high,  but  or- 
'  namental  fence. 

Suddenly  a  cry  of  anguish  rent  the  air— a 

woman’s  anguish,  terror  laden— the  wail  of  a 

great  love  crushed  by  a  cruel  surprise. 

The  priest  turned,  touched  to  his  very  vitals 

1  the  pain  of  that  woman’s  voice. 

The  fierce  bay  of  an  approaching  hound  was 

p  only  echo  awakened  by  that  frantic  cry. 

vVith  every  nerve  tense  and  each  sense  quick- 

pd  by  the  shock,  the  curate  gazed  in  all  di- 
actions. 

The  street  was  deserted  ;  not  a  person  in 

ight,  except  on  the  distant  Boulevard,  from 

vhich  was  borne  the  softened  hum  of  chil- 

ren’s  happy  cries  and  their  elders’  careless 
hatter. 


iS 


FATHER  .  AMBROSE. 


There  was  a  soul-seeking  quality  in  that  cry 
which  shot  to  the  inmost  depths  of  the  father’ s 
heart.  He  realized  at  once  that  a  calamity  of 
the  most  appalling  kind  was  at  hand.  His 
flesh  crept.  A  shudder  ran  through  his  spare 
frame,  while  a  wild  longing  to  leap  to  the  as¬ 
sistance  of  the  sufferer  made  him  impatient  to 
discover  who  she  was. 

As  he  stood,  wondering  which  way  to  turn, 
his  attention  was  attracted  by  the  strange  con- 
duct  of  a  dog,  which  sprang  over  a  high  hedge 
of  arbor-vitae  and  with  mad  growls  bounde 
furiously  against  the  front  door  of  the  villa  be 
hind  the  fence.  The  door  opened.  The  houn 
tore  into  the  house.  A  woman  appeared,  peei 
ing  anxiously  after  the  hound,  hesitating,  pow 
erless  to  decide  some  question  that  oppresse( 
her.  Presently  she  turned  and  looked  into  th 

a 

street  with  a  distracted  .stare.  One  sight  c) 
that  wretched  face  was  enough  for  the  zealouj  j s 
priest.  In  an  instant  he  reached  the  gate  am  e 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


19 


pulled  the  bell.  Its  clang  startled  the  puzzled 
icreature  at  the  door  into  an  exclamation  of 

4 

alarm. 

‘‘Courage,  madame  !  It  is  I,  Father  Am¬ 
brose.  Let  me  in.  I  will  help  you.” 

His  sympathetic  voice  brought  the  woman 
to  her  senses.  She  hurried  forward  and,  open¬ 
ing  the  gate,  cried  out  in  joy  : 

”  Ah,  the  good  God  has  sent  you  !  ” 

‘  ‘  What  has  happened  ?  ’  * 

“  I  don’t  know.  I  fear  the  worst !  ” 

”  To  whom  ?  ” 

“  You  shall  see.  Follow  me.  Hurry  !  ” 
Shutting  the  gate  with  a  reckless  slam,  the 
woman  ran  to  the  door  of  the  villa,  holding  it 
open  as  the  father  hastened  in  ;  then,  closing 
it,  she  paused  a  second  and  quickly  deciding, 
glided  up  the  broad  .stairs  before  them,  mut¬ 
tering  to  herself : 

”  No  matter  !  We  can  trust  the  priest.” 
f  The  long  frock  followed  closely,  in  silence. 


20 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


They  reached  the  upper  hallway.  A  large 
window  at  one  end  opened  upon  the  .street.  A; 
.seat  was  built  into  the  window.  In  front  of 
this  .seat  appeared  a  picture  grotesque  and) 
weird.  j 

The  body  of  a  young  girl  lay  in  a  graceles^ 
heap,  face  downward  upon  the  floor,  awfully 
still.  Above  her,  immovable  as  bronze,  watch¬ 
ing  with  glaring  eyes,  stood  a  monstrous  black 
hound. 

With  terrified  face  the  woman  pointed  to 
the  almost  shapeless  mass  beneath  the  brute, 
whispering  : 

‘  ‘  It  is  there  !  ’  ’ 

That  *  ‘  it  ’  *  expressed  the  repulsion  which 
ignorance  suffers  at  sight  of  death. 

The  woman  shrank  back  ;  the  man  bound¬ 
ed  forward.  The  beast,  recognizing  the  ap¬ 
proach  of  pity,  sprang  out  of  the  way. 

The  messenger  of  love  lifted  the  body  teii-_ 
derly  and  laid  it  under  the  light,  upon  t' 
broad  cushion  of  the  seat. 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


21 


The  heart  had  ceased  to  beat.  The  pulse 
had  passed  away.  The  sweat  of  death  lay  on 
her  placid  brow. 

The  young  father  deeply  moved  uttered  a 
groan  of  dismay.  The  hound  moaned  in  sym¬ 
pathy,  and,  with  an  unceasing  woeful  whine 
licked  the  ghastly  face  that  lay  in  the  light  of 
that  smiling  da}^. 

Youth,  in  all  its  glorious  fullness  was  strick¬ 
en  into  the  endless  impotence  of  death  by  some 
sinister  cause,  whose  cruelty  was  emphasized 
tenfold  by  the  grace  and  beauty  of  its  victim. 

The  priest,  with  the  skill  of  years  devoted 
to  disaster,  examined  more  closely  the  lifeless 
body  before  him.  Suddenly  he  sank  upon  his 
knees  with  a  reverent  cry  and  crossed  him¬ 
self. 

Mother  of  God,  have  pity,”  he  faltered. 

‘  ‘  Spare  this  life  in  death  !  ’  ’ 

Then,  springing  to  his  feet,  he  turned  to  the 
frightened  peasant  behind  him,  commanding  : 


22 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


“  Quick  !  to  Doctor  Lefort.  At  the  corner 
on  your  left.  Say  Father  Ambrose  wants  him 
at  once.  There  is  a  life  to  save  ! 5  ’ 

The  woman  gave  an  hysterical  laugh  of  de¬ 
light  and  disappeared. 

The  corpse  of  the  young  girl  was  the  tomb 
of  a  living  child. 

To  the  religious  faith  of  the  fervent  fanatic 
there  was  more  than  a  life — there  was  a  soul — 
to  save. 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


n 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  SOMNIPATHIST. 

Ambrose  Bonnard  was  the  son  of  a  soldier 
whose  wife  was  the  sister  of  a  Benedictine 
monk.  His  father,  who  was  a  Captain  of 
dragoons  and  a  fiery  enthusiast  in  all  he  ever 
undertook,  was  killed  leading  the  wTild  charge 
of  a  forlorn  hope  in  Algeria.  His  mother  died 
of  a  broken  heart,  struck  senseless  by  the 
sudden  news  of  her  husband’s  fate. 

From  the  hour  of  the  infant’s  birth  the 
monk  considered  him  a  special  charge  im¬ 
posed  by  Providence  upon  his  humanity.  He 
resolved  to  cherish  and  dedicate  his  future  to 
the  saintly  perfection  of  an  ascetic  life. 

As  the  child  developed  he  proved  to  be  ex- 
'  edingly  delicate  and  dreamy,  full  of  strange 
1  flections,  introspective  and  given  to  the 


24 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


i 


most  mystic  imaginings.  His  spiritual  per¬ 
ceptions  were  vivid,  clear,  and  strong.  His 
sense  of  physical  things  or  of  worldly  affairs 
was  so  obtuse  that  he  passed  at  school  as  a 
dullard  whom  no  one  could  understand. 

From  books  he  could  learn  nothing,  but  his 
inner  commerce  with  the  spirit  gave  him  at 
moments  an  eloquence  that  thrilled  the  puzzled 
auditors  who  chanced  to  hear  his  words. 

At  seven,  spells  of  trance  began.  In  these 
he  often  lay  for  hours,  to  all  appearance  dead. 
He  was  one  of  those  anomalous  human  beings 
whose  sensitive  organization  is  so  susceptible 
to  occult  influence  that  it  passes  readily  into  a 
somnambulistic  condition,  during  which  events 
take  place  that  are  unexplained  by  any  hy¬ 
pothesis  which  science  or  philosophy  has  thus 
far  advanced. 

At  fourteen,  he  entered  upon  a  course  of 
training  with  his  uncle  that  was  mediaeval 
its  merciless  severity.  Now  and  then  th  ^ 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


25 


exercises  produced  religious  ecstacies  which 
causi.d  a  frequent  recurrence  of  the  trance. 

C  1  some  of  these  occasions  there  would  issue 
from  the  lips  of  the  corybantic  lad  the  most 
wonderful  declarations,  astounding  his  ortho¬ 
dox  companion  by  the  reckless  and  poetic 
force  with  which  he  prophesied  a  coming  day 
of  religious  liberation  for  the  race. 

The  worthy  monk,  growing  thoroughly 
alarmed  at  the  rhapsodic  boldness  of  the  boy, 
decided  to  confide  to  the  learned  abbot  of  his 
cloister  the  .secret  of  his  nephew’s  suspicious 
visitations. 

The  superstition-ridden  man  feared  that  the 
devil  was  snatching  his  beloved  charge  from 
God. 

Before  he  could  confer  with  his  superior, 
however,  he  was  killed  by  the  falling  of  his 
horse  when  returning  from  a  mission  of  mer- 
cv"  which  he  had  undertaken  for  the  parish 

priest. 


26 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


I 

I 

I 

[ 

I 

At  the  death  of  the  monk,  the  priest  whotjh 
he  had  served  regarded  the  sole  relative  of  his 
dead  friend  as  a  ward  to  whom  the  accident 
had  bound  him  by  most  sacred  ties.  Inspired 
by  this  sentiment,  he  took  the  youth  into  his 
own  home,  devoting  himself  most  faithfully  to 
his  education  for  the  Church. 

From  the  date  of  his  uncle’s  death  the  ter¬ 
rible  severities  of  the  ascetic  system  were  su¬ 
perseded  by  the  comparatively  easy  discipline 
which  prepares  the  novitiate  for  the  unpreten¬ 
tious  labors  of  a  curate’s  life. 

In  his  new  home  his  health  improved,  but 
his  naturally  handsome  face  never  lost  the 
scars  of  care  which  those  early  years  of  self- 
denial  had  left  upon  it.  When  later  he  was 
admitted  to  holy  orders,  he  performed  the 
functions  of  his  office  with  an  unaffected  sin¬ 
cerity  that  endeared  him  deeply  to  all  “  who 
labored  or  were  heavy  laden  ’  ’  in  the  little 
world  he  served. 


FATHER  AMBROSE.  2J 

His  spells  of  trance  had  now  become  most 
rare,  but  still,  at  long  intervals  continued  to 
occur,  especially  when  he  had  been  more  deep¬ 
ly  stirred  than  usual  by  the  unexpected  jo>r  or 
sorrow  of  any  of  his  flock. 

At  the  time  of  the  incident  at  the  villa  he 
was  the  curate  of  the  little  Church  of  ‘  ‘  St. 
John  the  Beloved,”  at  Passy,  where,  during  a 

residence  of  eighteen  months,  he  had  won  the 

0 

reverence  and  love  even  of  those  most  ready  to 
mock  the  faith  he  followed. 

By  nature  and  unique  experience  he  was 
far  superior  to  his  environment.  Latent  in 
his  breast  were  powers  and  passions  of  whose 
existence  he  was  wholly  unaware.  His  un¬ 
selfish  soul,  untainted  by  one  touch  of  vanity, 
little  realized  that  it  possessed  the  ardent  valor 
of  the  soldier  and  the  patient  resignation  of  the 
saint,  although  the  slightest  cruelty  to  others 

promptly  roused  the  daring  of  the  first,  and 
any  trial  to  himself  the  fortitude  so  impressive 

in  the  last. 


28 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


Mystic,  ascetic,  sensitively  sympathetic, 
recklessly  enthusiastic,  with  strong  spiritual 
impulses,  but  without  the  slightest  worldly 
sense,  such  was  the  rare  and  pathetic  person¬ 
ality  which  fate,  or  Providence,  had  called  to 
meet  the  trying  circumstances  which  occurred 
in  the  lonely  villa  on  that  glowing  day  of 
spring. 


i 


S 


j 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


29 


CHAPTER  IV. 

AUDACITY  THAT  WAS  DIVINE. 

With  infinite  compassion,  the  curate  re¬ 
sumed  his  inquisition  of  the  dead. 

One  fair  arm  of  the  unfortunate  hung  over 
the  seat. 

The  brute  at  her  side,  powerless  to  word  its 
grief,  crouched,  still  moaning,  and  lapped  the 
fine,  pale  skin  of  his  inanimate  mistress  with 
a  tenderness  that  touched  to  tears  the  solitary 
witness  of  his  distress. 

No  human  being  ever  expressed  a  more  hu¬ 
mane  commiseration  than  the  eye,  tones,  and 
actions  of  that  black  beast  revealed  to  the  soul 
of  the  ecclesiastic  that  memorable  day. 

Deeply  moved  at  the  presence  of  such  a 
spiritual  grace  as  pity  in  a  dog,  the  pious  spec¬ 
tator  stooped  and  fondled  the  hound  with  a 


3<> 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


feeling  of  fellowship  he  had  not  felt  before, 
even  for  one  of  his  own  kin  or  cloth. 

While  doing  this,  he  noticed  that  the  ani¬ 
mal  was  sniffing  suspiciously  at  his  mistress’ 
hand. 

lifting  the  limp  arm,  he  saw  that  the  fragile 
fingers  were  tightly  closed  by  the  last  strong 
throe  of  death  upon  a  mass  of  paper. 

Gently,  as  though  he  feared  the  sleeper 
might  awake,  he  loosened  that  pain-locked 
clasp  and  released  a  letter,  in  which,  by  acci¬ 
dent,  he  read  this  fatal  line  : 

“You  have  never  been — can  never  be — my 
wife.” 

He  placed  the  rumpled  letter  in  his  pocket, 
intending  none  should  see  it  who  had  not  a 
sacred  right  to  the  secret  it  contained. 

Alas  !  he  already  knew  that  the  shock  of 
shame  had  sent  a  sensitive  creature  to  its  Cre¬ 
ator  before  she  had  known  the  purifying  an¬ 
guish  or  ennobling  compensations  of  maternity. 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


31 


While  these  thoughts  were  passing  through 
his  mind,  death,  having  overcome  the  woman, 
was  fast  completing  its  possession  of  the  other. 

Once  more  he  felt  the  body  of  the  lifeless  for 
a  sign  of  the  living. 

Only  the  faintest  flickerings  responded  to 
his  anxious  touch. 

He  was  seized  with  a  mad  yearning  to  res¬ 
cue  this  unknown,  who  had  all  at  once  become 
so  strangely  dear  to  him!  A  deep,  passionate 
determination  took  entire  possession  of  his  will. 

What  a  tragic  reversal  of  Nature’s  order  was 
here  ! 

The  grave  preceded  the  cradle  in  the  story 
of  this  life  unseen. 

How  keep  the  unborn  alive  in  the  breast  of 
the  dead  till  the  deliverer  could  arrive  ? 

He  must  do  it  at  any  cost. 

Warmth  could  save  this  waif,  who  might 
yet  prove  a  veritable  king  of  men.  No  ordi¬ 
nary  heat,  however;  no  mere  mechanical  cal- 


32 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


oric,  could  perform  this  miracle.  Only  that 
animating  vibvation  which  radiates  through 
the  flesh  from  the  sovereign  soul  itself  could 
accomplish  such  a  wonder.  Nothing  but  the 
warmth  of  the  living  could  preserve  this  fast- 
ebbing  life  from  death.  * 

The  violence  of  his  mental  activity,  as  these 
thoughts  stirred  his  brain,  produced  a  semi¬ 
visionary  state.  Tike  a  flash  the  past  illumined 
the  present ;  the  old  man’s  voice  sounded 
clearly  in  his  ears  once  more,  repeating  the 
oft-told  tale  which  his  uncle’s  cruel  faith  had 
taught  him  to  believe  was  possible  to  the  un¬ 
born  innocent  who  failed  to  command  the  holy 
office  of  baptism;  the  sacrament  essential  to 
save  a  newly-created  spirit  from  the  power  of 
the  fiend. 

To  have  lived,  even  in  the  dark  unconscious¬ 
ness  of  the  pre-natal  state,  without  baptism 
would  condemn  to  eternal  hopelessness-  the 
blameless  creature  whose  little  heart  was  beat¬ 
ing  in  this  corpse. 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


33 


This  was  the  horrible  certainty  which  his 
relative’s  fanaticism  had  convinced  him  threat¬ 
ened  the  unborn. 

Father  Ambrose  had  been  schooled  too  early 
in  this  monstrous  creed  to  realize  what  an  in¬ 
famous  libel  on  the  love  of  God  it  is.  It  never 
occurred  to  him  to  analyze  or  question  the 
truth  of  the  doctrines  which  austere  training 
had  so  assiduously  beaten  into  his  belief. 

In  the  presence  of  the  situation  now  con¬ 
fronting  him,  he  was  filled  with  the  unutter¬ 
able  anguish  which  the  thought  of  misery  to 
others  always  caused  to  the  divinity  in  him¬ 
self.  A  sudden  inspiration  revealed  the  one 
,  fearful  way  which  might  insure  success. 

At  the  critical  moment  the  mother’s  pulse 
had  failed. 

His  pulse,  the  pulse  of  the  one  whom  the 
friendless  called  a  father,  should  supply  the 
mother’s  place.  The  spiritual  Parent  would 
complete  the  creative  work  which  the  natural 
parent  had  begun. 


34 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


He  knew  that  every  fold  of  clothing  between 
his  strong,  hot  heart  and  that  unborn  babe  less¬ 
ened  its  certainty  of  salvation.  He  must  get 
as  close  to  that  quivering  spark  as  nature 
would  permit.  To  risk  failure  was  to  him  a 
crime.  Not  the  slightest  shadow  of  a  chance 
to  save  that  helpless  being  from  eternal  dark¬ 
ness  should  be  lost! 

A  low  mind  or  a  petty  spirit  would  have 
hesitated. 

Not  so  this  simple  servant  of  the  outcast 
Nazarene,  whose  one  great  mission  wTas  to 
save. 

No  vulgar  concern  regarding  the  opinions 
of  the  vile  belittled  his  noble  mind  at  a  mo¬ 
ment  so  supreme. 

‘  ‘  He  whom  God  commands  heeds  not  the 
voice  of  the  world.” 

Through  an  open  door  he  saw  a  bed. 

With  the  strength  of  a  great  hope,  he 
stripped  the  lifeless  form  and  laid  it  ter  derly 
beneath  the  blankets. 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


35 


The  bridal  couch  had  become  a  bier.  He 
would  convert  it  into  life’s  triumphal  car. 
This  bier  should  become  a  bed  of  birth  and 
bring  forth  the  living  fruit  of  this  hapless  wo¬ 
man’s  love. 

Glowing  with  a  reckless  enthusiasm,  and 
unconscious  of  all  but  the  salvation  he  sought 
to  achieve,  the  uncanonized  saint,  Ambrose, 
speedily  bared  his  body,  crept  close  to  the 
-  dead,  and  clasped  its  icy  flesh  with  the  burn¬ 
ing  ardor  of  an  intense,  but  chaste,  desire. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  whole  existence 
this  noble  son  of  man  held  a  clotheless  woman 
to  his  naked  breast. 

Clotheless  ? 

Not  to  worthy  eyes. 

The  celestial  mantle  of  innocence — a  far 
more  certain  protection  to  purity  than  any 
woven  by  a  worldly  hand — enwrapped  him, 
and  the  sanctity  of  a  holy  purpose  hallowed 
his  embrace. 


3& 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


To  the  pure  in  heart — whose  spiritual  vision 
undimmed  by  the  dust  of  any  low  idea,  is 
quick  to  see  God  behind  a  deed  of  man — this 
priest’s  first  folding  of  a  woman’s  form  can 
only  appear  sublime  —  consecrated  by  the 
grandeur  of  an  audacity  that  was  divine. 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


37 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  DESECRATING  STARE  OF  VUEGAR  EYES. 

Father  Ambrose  lay,  with  eyes  fast  closed, 
detached  from  all  sense  of  self,  by  zealous  sup¬ 
plication  of  the  Virgin  whose  divine  maternity 
he  sought  with  ardent  faith,  at  this  most  solemn 
moment. 

So  absorbed  was  he  that  all  perception  of  the 
flight  of  time,  or  of  his  own  anomalous  posi¬ 
tion,  was  suspended. 

His  mystic  communion  was  interrupted  by  a 
blow. 

The  dog,  who  had  followed  every  action  of 
the  priest  with  strained  attention,  perplexed  at 
the  endless  silence  sprang  upon  the  bed. 

Ambrose,  startled,  opened  his  eyes,  and  met 
those  of  the  hound  watching  him  in  anxious 
eagerness. 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


Realizing  the  life-giving  potency  of  even  a 
brute’s  affection,  his  superstitious  confidence 
regarded  the  creature  as  the  envoy  of  the 
heavenly  mother,  sent  by  her  providential  in¬ 
fluence  to  fortify  the  energies  which  were 
*  struggling  for  the  life  of  the  unborn. 

lifting  the  coverings  he  made  a  sign  which 
his  companion  understood  so  well  that  he 
quickly  stretched  his  full  warm  length  against 
the  body  of  the  one  who  less  than  an  hour  be¬ 
fore  had  been  the  dearest  in  the  world  to  him, 
What  a  bizarre  blending  of  animation  and 
mortality  the  spectacle  presented ! 

There  lay  death,  between  two  lives,  sepa¬ 
rated  by  the  accident  of  creation — united  by  the 
design  of  affection. 

On  one  side  a  life  vowed  to  heaven — on  the 
other  a  life  fatally  bound  to  earth  ;  each  of  these 
lives  penetrating  the  dead,  and  co-mingling,  to 
preserve  another  life,  which  the  credulous 
ascetic  believed  was  on  the  verge  of  hell! 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


39 


The  man  believed  that  he  was  clinging  to  a 
coffin  of  flesh,  in  which  life  was  confined.  The 
beast  felt  that  he  was  fondling  a  friend  who  lay 
in  mute  submission  to  some  misfortune  which 
the  faithful  slave  could  feel,  but  could  not 
comprehend. 

The  priest  sought  only  to  save  the  living, 
while  the  dog  lavished  his  devotion  in  a  vain 
endeavour  to  comfort  the  dead. 

Both  however  sublimated  by  that  mystery 
called  Love — that  omnipotence  which  lifts  all 
— levels  all — and  so  often  asserts  the  equiva¬ 
lence  of  creatures  who  appear  the  most  op¬ 
posed  in  natural  rank. 

sfc  ijc  j}:  ifc 

The  house  was  deserted.  In  spite  of  the 
cries  which  for  a  time  had  echoed  through  its 
halls,  no  signal  of  response  had  reached  the 
Father,  save  those  of  the  servant  and  the  dog. 

She  whose  offspring  lay  in  present  peril,  had 
doubtless  been  sole  mistress  of  the  house;  while 
the  master  had  departed,  never  to  return. 


4° 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


And  the  woman  who  had  flown  so  swiftly, 
with  that  nervous  laugh  upon  her  lips,  had  she, 
too,  deserted  the  betrayed  ? 

These  questions  sped  through  the  watcher’s 
mind  until  influences  too  insidious  to  arouse 
resistance,  slowly  drifted  his  attention  into 
channels,  of  whose  dangerous  reefs  and  shoals 
he  knew  as  little  as  a  child. 

The  priest’s  gaze  fell  upon  the  face  beside 
him. 

The  silky,  gold-brown  hair,  spread  in  mag¬ 
nificent  profusion  upon  her  pillow,  glistened 
like  the  dark,  luminous  background,  on  which 
the  great  Titian  loved  to  paint  his  imperial  Bella 
Donnas.  The  ivory  fleshed  tints  of  her  fea¬ 
tures  possessed  the  same  ineffable  transparence 
which  so  enchants  the  eye  in  the  immortal 

t 

works  of  that  master  of  the  Renaissance. 

There  was  a  nobility  of  proportion  in  the 
symmetry  of  her  shapely  head  that  betokened 
both  high  breeding  and  large  brain.  The  face 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


41 


was  full  of  force  and  refinement.  It  had  a 
fascination  peculiarly  its  own. 

The  longer  the  curate  gazed  the  more  com¬ 
pletely  he  perceived  the  wondrous  grace  that 
glorified  that  countenance. 

The  brows,  penciled  with  delicate  decision, 
combined  a  breadth  that  was  commanding  with 
a  serenity  supremely  sweet. 

The  eyes  were  signless,  gleaming  no  longer 
with  the  glances  of  a  noble  mind  that  scarce  a 
moment  since  gazed  through  their  hazel  lenses. 
Their  lids  had  fallen  in  meek  surrender  to  their 
mortal  foe,  and  lay  with  an  impotence  that  was 
pathetic  upon  the  windows  of  the  spirit  world. 

The  nose,  however,  had  a  look  of  life  con¬ 
trasting  most  uncannily  with  the  ashen-hued 
rigidity  around  it.  Its  dainty  nostrils — ex¬ 
panded  by  their  last  convulsive  effort  to  retain 
the  breath  of  life — appeared  almost  to  quiver; 
while  the  chiseled  elegance  of  its  formation  was 
unmarred  by  any  touch  of  death’s  disfiguring 
finger. 


42 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


But  her  mouth  !  O  !  that  winsome,  way¬ 
ward,  virtuous  mouth  !  So  incapable  of  wrong 
itself — so  provocative  of  wrong  in  others  !  In 
the  delicate  lines  of  those  lifeless  lips  strength 
and  tenderness,  passion  and  purity,  earnestness 
and  archness,  gravity  and  gaiety,  were  so 
subtly  interwoven  that,  though  .still  and  stiff, 
they  were  irresistibly  bewitching. 

And  there,  uplifted  in  the  mellow  light — its 
innocently  wrecking  lips  just  parted,  by  the 
last  soft  sigh  that  set  the  spirit  free — this 
matchless  human  mouth  revealed,  with  peril¬ 
ous  plenitude,  the  ravishing  exquisiteness  of 
its  magic  curves. 

From  the  subtle  sorcery  of  that  guileless  con¬ 
templation,  Ambrose,  the  simple  hearted,  was 
destined  never  to  escape. 

vf/  4#  si/  s]/  v]/ 

4^  /js 

Faintly,  from  afar,  the  solemn  measure  of  a 
funeral  march  was  wafted  to  the  ears  of  this 
servant  of  the  sanctuary,  and  as  the  dirge  of  the 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


43 


dead  grew  nearer,  the  warning  tone  of  its 
desolate  wail,  awakened  him  to  his  senses. 

A  soldier  of  the  State  was  passing  through 
the  busy  Boulevard  to  the  deathless  quiet  of 
an  honored  grave. 

And  he — a  soldier  of  the  Holy  Cross — to 
what  did  his  wanderings  tend  ? 

This  question  smote  his  conscience,  as  he  lay 
listening  to  the  mournful  movement,  already 
melting  in  the  distance.  The  sting  of  the  in¬ 
terrogation  delivered  him,  for  a  time,  from  the 
fascinating  sway  to  which  he  had  uncon¬ 
sciously  submitted.  A  shame  he  scarcely 
recognized  assailed  him.  He  dumbly  felt  he 
was  in  danger.  Of  what,  he  instinctively  dis¬ 
dained  to  ask;  nevertheless  in  obedience  to  the 
force  of  custom,  when  oppressed  with  vague 
emotions  that  escaped  his  comprehension,  he 
quickly  crossed  himself. 

In  making  the  sacred  sign,  the  embrace  of 
the  dead  was  broken.  This  act  recalled  him 


44 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


to  a  sense  of  the  actual  facts  around  him,  and  he 
realized  that  for  many  moments  no  signal  of 
existence  had  reached  him  from  the  life  he 
sought  to  save. 

Indignant  at  the  long  delay  in  the  arrival  of 
assistance,  he  abandoned  himself  to  one  last 
desperate  effort  to  revive  the  dying  babe. 

Believing  the  increase  of  peril  to  the  infant 
due  to  the  cessation  of  his  prayers,  he  grasped 
more  closely  the  casket  of  human  clay,  and 
concentrating  all  his  will  upon  the  one  precious 
possibility  of  saving  the  unseen,  he  passed 
through  prayer  into  a  state  of  pious  beatitude, 
and  thence  into  cataleptic  trance. 

Man  and  priest  had  disappeared.  The  som- 
nipathist  had  reappeared  with  all  the  possibili¬ 
ties  of  wonder  which  that  implies. 

>$:  i}c 

The  silence  seemed  to  deepen,  and  even  the 
sibilant  fly  to  rest,  as  the  roseate  radiance  of 
the  early  evening  illumined  this  motionless 
group. 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


45 


Stark — and  in  mocking  contrast  with  the 
merry  motion  of  the  motes  swirling  in  the 
flecks  of  sunlight  shining  through  the  blinds — 
a  feminine  form,  in  ghastly  beauty  stretched, 
was  couched  twixt  man  and  beast. 

The  coverings  of  the  bed  slipping  from  her 
shoulders,  half  bared  the  marvellous  modelling 
of  her  pearly,  girlish  breast. 

The  hound,  resting  his  great  jaw  upon  the 
first  soft  undulations  of  her  breathless  bosom, 
watched  the  cruel  stillness  of  her  features  with 
sad  and  wistful  eyes. 

The  man’s  head,  bowed  by  his  absorbing 
commune  with  the  spirit,  reclined  against  the 
firm  young  flesh  of  her  lovely  shoulder  with 
the  confiding  abandon  of  a  child. 

Gradually  an  ashen  pallor  crept  over  the 
Father’s  face.  The  skin  tightened  slowly  upon 
his  worn  features.  His  eyes  sunk  into  their 
sockets,  the  lids  lifting  enough  to  unveil  the 
lower  edges  of  the  iris.  The  ghastliness  of  the 


46 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


priest’s  appearance  became  more  corpse-like 
than  that  of  the  body  he  held  in  his  stiffen¬ 
ing  arms.  Each  moment  he  seemed  sinking 
more  deeply  into  death,  while  her  aspect  soft¬ 
ened  with  a  growing  look  of  life. 

The  living  was  passing  into  twilight — the 
dead  was  nearing  dawn. 

Suddenly  the  dog  started.  Up  went  his 
head,  with  a  side-long  turn  exceedingly  in¬ 
quisitive,  his  eyes  focused  intently  on  the 
woman’s  form. 

An  almost  imperceptible  vibration  was  pass¬ 
ing  through  her  frame.  All  at  once  it  was 
convulsed  by  a  violent  throe,  which  frightened 
the  hound  into  a  half  sitting  posture,  every 
fibre  of  his  flesh  turning  rigid  with  alarm. 

Something  unearthly  was  happening.  Some¬ 
thing  vague  and  dreadful,  transfixing,  with  a 
formless  fear,  the  lone  almost  paralyzed  spec¬ 
tator  of  this  nondescript  occurrence. 

His  crouching  body  drawn  back,  his  head 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


47 


outstretched  and  strained,  the  brute’s  eyes 
roamed,  askant,  as  though  he  felt  some  shadow 
hovering  in  the  sunshine  above  the  bed  of 
death. 

With  electric  velocity,  the  horror  reached  an 
awful  climax;  driving  the  dog  into  a  corner, 
his  eyes  ablaze  with  phosphorescent  light,  he 
yelped  in  abject  fear. 

First,  a  tremor  had  appeared  upon  the 
woman’s  lips,  then  her  nostrils  quivered.  Fi¬ 
nally,  as  though  struck  by  some  terrific  current 
from  an  invisible  galvanic  pile,  her  eyes  flew 
open  with  a  ghastly  .stare,  her  whole  form 
writhed  and  twisted,  her  knees  jerked  up  and 
met  her  shivering  chin,  a  sickening  guttural 
gurgigation  issued  from  her  throat,  her  jaw 
gyrated,  she  gasped  hideously,  shrieked  and 
fell  back  limp,  relaxed,  breathing,  but  uncon¬ 
scious,  across  the  body  of  her  motionless  com¬ 
panion. 

The  dead  was  living.  The  living  quiet  and 
livid  as  the  dead. 


48 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


Bare,  and  in  closest  contact,  the  coverings  in 
wild  disorder  half  thrown  from  their  limbs, 
reposed  a  living  man  and  woman,  who  had 
never  yet  exchanged  a  single  word  or  .sign  of 
recognition. 

^ 

The  brank  of  a  bell  rang  through  the  house. 

The  dog,  encouraged  by  a  familiar  sound, 
sprang  to  the  open  window  with  a  bark. 

A  man  at  the  gate  was  impatient  for  admit¬ 
tance.  The  delayed  response  annoyed  him. 
He  rang  more  sharply.  Surprise  succeeded 
irritation,  and  anger  both,  as  his  summons 
still  remained  unanswered.  With  an  oath,  he 
pulled  the  gong  again.  Its  dismal  clatter  died 
away  unheeded  as  before. 

Puzzled  and  enraged,  the  stranger  sought 
some  means  of  scaling  the  tall  iron  fence. 

It  was  evident  he  had  come  on  business  that' 
was  pressing,  for  his  movements  were  decided 
and  alert. 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


49 


He  noticed  that  the  gate  to  the  adjoining 
grounds  was  open  and  the  wall  between  the 
garden  of  the  villa  and  its  neighbor  of  only 
medium  height.  With  a  hasty  glance  about 
him,  to  see  if  he  were  watched,  he  hurried 
through  the  neighboring  gateway.  With  a 
cat’s  agility,  he  passed  the  barrier  of  brick, 
and  striding  to  the  house,  sought  entrance  at 
the  front  and  rear  without  success. 

Finally  he  climbed  a  trellis  work  leading  to 
a  window  at  the  top  of  the  veranda. 

He  was  greeted  by  a  joyful  bay  from  the 
waiting  hound,  who  plainly  knew  the  resolute 
intruder.  Attracted  by  this  rejoicing,  he  hur¬ 
ried  to  the  window  of  the  room, — where  primal 
innocence  lay  powerless  to  escape  the  desecrat¬ 
ing  stare  of  vulgar  eyes. 

After  warding  off  the  animal’s  too  demon¬ 
strative  caresses,  he  was  about  to  vault  into  the 
chamber  when,  his  glance  falling  on  the  bed, 
he  paused,  rooted  to  the  spot. 


50 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


For  a  minute  he  gazed  stupefied,  then  re¬ 
covering  his  faculties,  he  burst  into  a  loud  and 
ribald  laugh. 

The  revolting  vocal  insult  was  checked  by 
some  malevolent  inspiration,  which  doubtless 
pleased  him,  for  with  a  malicious  smile,  he 
quickly  drew  a  packet  from  his  pocket  and 
flung  it  at  the  priest. 

The  dreamer  started,  turned,  and,  not  even 
yet  fully  aroused  from  his  anomalistic  cerebra¬ 
tions,  he  flung  his  arm  across  the  bosom  of  his 
comatose  companion. 

The  malefic  spy  greeted  the  guileless  Father’s 
action  with  a  coarse  guffaw,  and  then  descend¬ 
ing  as  he  came,  in  haste,  he  ran  through  the 
gateway — which  he  could  open  from  within — 
and  slamming  its  iron  grating,  with  manifest 
contempt,  he  strode  swiftly  toward  the  “  Bois,” 
his  brain  alert  with  pitiless  determination. 

As  he  rushed  on,  he  was  stopped  by  a  stri- 
dant  voice,  crying  : 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


51 


‘ 1  Pouska  !  Pouska  !  ’  ’ 

Turning  he  saw  a  coupe  held  up  abruptly  in 
the  middle  of  the  street.  A  woman  was  just 
alighting.  He  recognized  her.  She  ran 
toward  him.  He  increased  his  pace.  The 
woman  shouted  : 

“Stay!  Madame  is  dying!  Dead,  per¬ 
haps  !  ’  ’ 

Pouska  langhed  back  : 

‘  *  By  my  faith  !  A  new  name  for  the  old 
sin.  I  shall  remember  it,  Clarisse  !  ” 

‘  ‘  Come  back,  and  see.  ’  ’ 

‘  ‘  I  have  seen  !  A  sight  to  make  the  devil 
blush  !  ’  ’ 

“  Come  back,  I  say  !  Monsieur  de  Vaugar 
must  know.  ’  ■ 

With  a  frightful  oath,  Pouska  shouted  in 
return  : 

“Ho!  Don’t  fear  !  He  shall  know  !’ ’ 

Quickly  turning  the  corner,  the  mocker  dis- 
app  -..red. 


52 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

HUMIRATION  MOST  ABJECTEY  HUMAN. 

Cearisse  looked  into  space — dumbfounded. 

A  strong  hand  fell  upon  her  shoulder,  a 
stern  voice  saying : 

‘  ‘  Come  !  come  ! — be  quick  !  ’  ’ 

“  At  once — Monsieur.” 

The  woman  had  returned.  She  unlocked 
the  gate,  and  hurriedly  led  the  way.  As  she 
neared  the  house,  she  stopped  in  the  path  be¬ 
fore  the  porch,  exclaiming  with  a  shudder  : 

*  ‘  Ah  God  !  how  still  it  is  !  ” 

The  doctor,  realizing  the  peril  of  delay, 
shouted  with  impatience  : 

“  Open,  at  once  !  ” 

The  woman  obeyed. 

If  the  inteiloper’s  blow  had  slain  the  somni- 
pathist,  he  might  have  had  good  reason  to  be 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


53 


grateful  to  him  who  struck  it.  As  it  was,  it 
awoke  him  to  a  life  which  wTas  forever  changed 
by  the  unfolding  of  events  that  followed. 

Fate,  Providence,  Nature,  accident — which¬ 
ever  one  may  choose  to  call  it — played  wanton 
work  with  the  consciousness  of  this  singular 
character. 

The  velocity  of  cerebral  energy,  as  the  brain 
passes  from  its  unconsciousness  into  its  con¬ 
scious  activity,  is  incalculably  great. 

Between  the  precise  second  when  Ambrose 
Bonnard  was  struck  by  the  package  of  the  spy, 
and  the  arrival  of  the  doctor,  there  could  not 
have  elapsed  more  than  five  minutes,  and  yet, 
during  that  little  time  he  had  lived  through  an 
age  of  asomatous  emotions. 

The  first  sense,  he  afterwards  remembered, 
impressed  him,  .simply,  with  a  meaningless 
repose. 

Gradually  he  felt  himself  evironed  by  a  glor¬ 
ious,  golden  mist.  An  ethereal,  delicious, 


54 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


ardor  penetrated  every  pore.  Delicate  vibra¬ 
tions  glided  through  his  flesh — deepening  into 
pulses  he  failed  to  understand — strengthening 
into  throbbings  that  drenched  his  .soul  with 
rapturous  sense. 

Seraphic  music  rose  through  long  crescendo 
measures  into  resonance  divine,  then  swept, 
fading,  into  silence  quivering  with  supernal 
peace.  Peace,  where  self — by  self-extinction 
— found  self-perfection  in  the  Un-self — God. 

He  had  found  the  Ever.  The  other  was 
the  None.  That  dim  memory  the  phantom, 
whose  delusions  Almightyness  designed  to 
make  All-lovingness  more  clear. 

A  fresh  phase  supervened. 

In  this  realm  of  the  Reconciled — the  Nirv¬ 
ana  of  the  Vedas — another  life  than  his,  yet 
one  most  wholly  his,  grew  out  of  his,  and  took 
form  besides  him.  This  life  held  him  in  a 
folding  intimate  and  chaste  ;  wrought  a  sweet 
entrancement  that  flooded  every  faculty  with 
infinity  of  force. 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


55 


Ages — eons — passed,  and  yet  this  permeating 
union  grew  more  absolute  and  strong  ;  expand¬ 
ing  into  delectations  more  unbounded  and 
complete. 

Alas  !  to  Entities  yet  earthly  even  Eternity 
hath  an  end. 

Such  Archangelic  joys  only  the  consumated 
manhood  of  Celestial  essence  could  endure. 

His  paradise  was  shattered  by  a  shock  of 
of  phrensied  bliss. 

Felicity  passed  into  transport — transport 
into  ecstacy  where  agony  became  delight — 
culminating  in  a  spasm  transcendant,  sove¬ 
reign,  supreme. 

Omnipotence  throbbed  through  every  fibre  ! 

Was  he  the  atom — becoming  the  All  ? 

Was  he  the  man — absorbing  God  ? 

Had  the  colossal  throe  of  Time  arrived  ? 

Was  this  the  Ultimate  Consummation  ? 

No  !  it  was  annihilation — the  return  to  non¬ 
existence. 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


56 


A  tornado  of  horror  succeeded  the  beatific 
serenity  of  Nirvana  grace. 

The  immeasurable  spaces  were  falling  apart ! 

The  eternal  ages  were  shrinking,  backward, 
into  one  obliterating  flash  of  worthless  time. 

Monstrous  absurdity  ! 

A  stupendous  illusion  ;  begotten  by  the  last 
mental  paroxysm  which  occurs  when  the  indi¬ 
vidual  is  torn  from  the  Universal,  and  sweeps 
from  a  completely  spiritual  into  a  partially 
physical  state  of  existence. 

A  mighty  convulsion  rent  the  very  founda¬ 
tions  of  his  being,  and  ,then,  with  a  great  sob, 
like  the  cry  of  the  new  born,  the  somnipathist 
fell  into  physical — that  is  self-consciousness. 

He  was  cast  from  Eternity  into  time  ; — from 
the  Elemental,  and  the  Real  into  the  formal, 
and  the  phantasmal ; — from  Heaven  to  earth 
— the  only  abode  of  Hell. 

The  crash,  of  this  prodigious  antithesis, 
stunned  him.  He  lay  dazed,  panting,  trembling, 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


57 


prostrate,  weak,  and — for  a  second — helpless 
as  a  babe  at  its  first  breath. 

For  a  little  span  the  priest  abandoned  him¬ 
self  to  that  false  sense  of  well-being  which 
weakness  feels  in  rest. 

Presently  his  body  began  to  tingle  with  a 
subtle  influx  of  new  force.  His  contact  with 
the  living  he  did  not  yet  perceive,  but  the 
polar  principle  of  nature  wrought  its  puissant 
work.  His  nervous  centres  soon  were  loaded 
with  a  potency  bewildering  to  the  simple  man. 
He  mistook  this  elemental  movement  for  some 
miraculous  presence,  pervading  him  in  order 
to  preserve  the  child.  He  was  lost  in  gratitude 
for  the  benignant  visitation,  when  he  was 
suddenly  transfixed,  by  a  dread  suspicion. 

Had  the  corpse  breathed  ? 

He  could  not  move.  He  dared  not  open  his 
eyes.  He  lay  shivering  from  head  to  foot  with 
smothering  emotions,  the  cause  of  which  he 
was  too  dazed  to  faintly  comprehend. 


58 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


A  soft  sigh  stirred  the  air. 

He  stiffened  with  an  awful  fear! 

‘  ‘  Leo — Leo — Leo !  ’  ’ 

This  name,  whispered  weakly,  but  in  tender- 
est  tones,  floated  through  the  room. 

It  stung  every  faculty  of  the  holy  father  into 
tumultuous  life.  His  eyes  stared.  He  turned 
— glared  at  the  body — and  started  from  it  wdth 
a  scream  of  horror. 

“  My  God  it  lives!  ” 

To  the  ignorant  servant  the  dead  had 
become  an  “it.”  To  the  superstitious  ascetic, 

k 

the  living  fell  into  a  neuter — far  more  absolute 
than  death. 

With  deep  moans  of  anguish  he  shrank 
beside  the  bed — crushed  beneath  a  morbid 
shame. 

He — the  celibate — had  violated  his  most 
sacred  vows — had  clasped  the  carnal — been 
invaded  by  its  fiendish  fire — been  polluted  by 
its  passional  poison — been  quickened  by  its 
quivering  quintessence ! 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


59 


The  sin  of  sins — and  woe  of  woes  was  his! 

With  throes  of  spirit— no  common  clod  can 
comprehend — this  angelic  victim  of  ascetic 
craze,  grovelled,  groaning,  on  the  floor. 

The  hound  lapped  his  naked  feet  with 
sympathetic  cries,  unconsciously  performing 
the  most  touching  sacrament. 

An  audacity  that  was  divine  had  wrought 
humiliation  most  abjectly  human,  upon  the 
stern  believer  in  the  sin  of  sex. 

The  creed-crushed  man  thought  God  less 

tender  than  a  dog. 

Surely  there  was  more  of  the  Christ  in  the 
sympathetic  tongue  of  the  hound  than  in  the 
theistic  teachings  of  the  monk! 


6o 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


CHAPTER  VII. 

A  CRUSHING  CREED. 

The  shame  of  the  anchorite  cut  him  adrift 
from  all  hope;  plunged  him  into  the  bottom¬ 
less  pit  of  an  appalling  despair.  The  foul 
falsehoods,  which  had  been  deeply  implanted 
in  the  impressionable  nature  of  the  child,  now 
agonized  the  man  with  the  conviction  that  he 
had  committed  that  awful,  mysterious,  inex¬ 
plicable,  but  eternally  blighting,  act — “the 
unpardonable  sin.  ’  * 

How  many  of  the  noblest  and  most  innocent 
of  human  beings  have  been  driven  into  Bedlam 
by  this  diabolic  idea;  a  conception  of  priestly 
cunning,  intended  to  terrorize  the  race,  and 
force  from  the  fears  of  men  the  tribute  essential 
to  keep  alive  the  wrecking  rule  of  the  self- 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


6 1 


elected  middleman — of  a  wretched  man-made, 
God! 

The  treachery  of  Judas  to  Jesus  was  a  saintly 
deed,  compared  to  the  betrayal  of  the  Christ 
which  ecclesiasticism  has  perpetrated  for  cen¬ 
turies,  by  the  propagation  of  this  crafty  lie. 

Why  should  God  devise  a  sin  of  whose 
nature  he  kept  men  completely  ignorant,  and 
yet  for  whose  unconscious,  and  unintentional 
commission  He  could  provide  no  saving 
pardon  ? 

And  yet,  many  of  the  most  brilliant  minds 
in  Christendom  have  been  so  overthrown,  by 
the  persistent  repetition  to  their  childhood  of 
this  dastard  doctrine,  that  they  have  not  only 
accepted  this  colossal  insult  to  God’s  decency, 
but  have  become  such  moral  cowards  that  they 
dared  not  discuss  the  mystery,  for  fear  they 
should,  thereby,  unwittingly  commit  the  sin. 

What  iniquitous  audacity  to  heap  such  horror 
upon  a  helpless,  and  long-trusting  humanity! 


62 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


What  a  heartless  requital  of  its  unquestion¬ 
ing  confidence! 

What  a  crime  of  crimes  to  proclaim — in  the 
hallowed  name  of  the  meek  messenger  of 
absolute  and  boundless  Iyove — a  doctrine  whose 
perfection  of  cruelty  the  most  demoniac  and 
artful  hatred  could  not  possibly  surpass. 

i{c 

The  sound  of  footsteps,  upon  the  path  out¬ 
side,  checked  the  torments  of  the  self-accused. 

Some  one  at  the  lower  door,  thundered: 

‘  ‘  Open  at  once !  ’  ’ 

The  priest  recognized  the  doctor’s  voice.  In 
an  instant  he  was  thrilled  by  a  resurrecting 
thought;  the  dazzling  light  of  a  divine  hope 
flooded  the  dark  abyss  of  his  despair! 

How  magnificent  such  a  mercy,  to  send  such 
an  inspiration  to  his  shame! 

The  sin  might  not  be  the  pardonless  mon¬ 
strosity  he  feared. 

He  dared  to  hope,  for  Heaven  had  shown 
him  a  long  and  cruel  process  of  purgation. 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


63 


This  was  the  penance  his  self-contempt  pre¬ 
scribed. 

The  doctor  and  the  peasant  were  at  hand. 
They  should  witness  his  iniquity.  They  should 
behold  his  nakedness,  and  cover  him  with 
contempt.  They  should  drive  him  forth,  an 
outcast,  forever,  from  the  love  or  confidence  of 
men.  A  desolate  life  time  of  martyrdom  to 
scorn  and  contumely,  might  atone  for  his 
criminal  forgetfulness  of  the  vileness  of  human 
flesh. 

All  perception  of  the  noble  motive  that  had 
spurred  him  to  his  act  was  buried,  beneath  his 
mad  horror  at  the  carnal  touch.  He  believed 
that  touch  had  stirred  into  fury  the  polluting 
flames  of  hell.  Nothing  less  than  long  years 
of  human  loathing  could  purge  him  from  their 
taint. 

The  door  below  was  opening;  all  his  hopes 
of  happiness  on  earth  were  on  the  verge  of 
irreparable  destruction. 


64 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


A  less  heroic  will  than  this  would  have 
recoiled,  cringing  and  terrified,  from  this 
approaching  ruin.  He — on  the  contrary — 
rose  with  a  cry  of  gratitude — stood  erect- 
naked — in  an  attitude  of  fearless  triumph — 
waiting  to  welcome  the  stings,  the  taunts,  the 
revilings,  which  were  to  cleanse  him  from  his 
sin. 

How  magnificent  his  presence  as  he  loomed 
in  that  broad  light,  with  leonine  dignity!  The 
head  of  an  apostle,  upon  the  form  of  an  Apollo! 
The  transfigured  face  of  a  saint,  shining  with 
the  radiant  beauty  of  self  annihilation,  above 
the  lithe  and  superb  body  of  an  athlete! 

What  a  glorious  sire  of  a  glorious  race  he 
might  have  been,  but  for  the  vicious  views  of 
nature’s  virtue!  This  sublime  union  of  animal 
force  and  divine  affection,  sought  to  be  loathed, 
despised,  execrated,  by  the  fellow  mortals 
whom  he  loved  so  truly,  and  for  whose  salva- 
he  would  willingly  have  suffered  unutterable 
pangs. 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


65 


Footsteps  were  flying  up  the  stairs! 

Oh!  monstrous  price  of  mercy — for  the 
tender  crime  of  love!  monstrous  creed  that 
exacts  it! 

Oh  sycophantic  fear! — that  sues  for  or 
accepts,  the  lightest  favor  of  such  a  friend! 

And  yet  Ambrose  the  hero-hearted — was  the 
prey  of  this  crushing  creed! 


66 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

HUMAN  AFFECTION  AND  FIENDISH  FAITH. 

EET  us  hold  on  to  time,  and  turn  the  pages 
back. 

When  Clarisse  finally  succeeded  in  reaching 
Eefort,  she  broke  into  superabundant  excla¬ 
mations. 

“  On  sir  !  don’t  let  it  grow  too  late  !  Hurry  ! 
Something  horrible  has  happened  !  He  says 
you  must  come,  and  come  quickly  !  ’  * 

“  Who’s  he?  ”  growled  the  doctor. 

“It’s  Father  Ambrose,  and  he  told  me—  ” 

‘  ‘  That’s  enough  !  I’ll  go  with  you  at  once.  ’  ’ 

The  doctor  knew  the  zealous  slave  of  sor¬ 
row  well,  and  never  failed  to  respond,  most 
promptly,  to  all  of  his  appeals.  He  ordered 
his  coachman  to  drive  to  his  house,  and  entered 
his  carriage  with  Clarisse, 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


6  7 


Once  at  home  he  speedily  secured  a  large 
valise  of  medicines  and  lances, — then  hastened 
to  the  villa.  Long  as  it  took  to  arrive,  and 
carefully  as  he  questioned  the  servant,  he 
failed  to  draw  anything  from  her  which  could 
help  him  to  conjecture  the  character  of  the* 
case  he  was  about  to  undertake. 

Two  facts,  alone,  were  obvious. 

First — some  extraordinary  calamity  had  oc¬ 
curred. 

Second — a  .suspicious  mystery,  involving 
either  misfortune,  crime,  or  both,  was  con¬ 
nected  with  this  occurrence. 

Mystery,  however,  was  no  affair  o£  his. 

For  misfortune  the  Priest. 

For  crime — the  Police. 

For  calamity — the  Leech. 

The  last,  only,  belonged  to  him.  He  would 
cope  with  that  shortly,  but  would  not  permit 
any  other  possibilities  to  disturb  him  in  the 
least. 


68 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


Little  did  he  imagine,  as  he  hastened  to  that 
stranger’s  house,  how  absorbing  this  mystery, 
with  its  grief  and  crime,  was  to  become.  Lit¬ 
tle  did  he  suppose  that  its  abnormal  features 
were  to  open  a  new  realm  of  thought  to  him, 
and  to  lead  to  the  investigations  of  facts, 
which  were  destined,  ultimately,  to  startle  the 
scientific  world. 

As  Lefort  entered  the  villa,  he  was  greeted 
by  Bonnard’s  cry  of  welcome  to  the  coming 
sliame,  on  which  he  dared  to  count  for  the  sal¬ 
vation  of  his  soul.  While  the  doctor  failed  to 
recognize  the  voice  of  his  young  friend,  his 
practiced  ear  detected,  instantly,  the  discord¬ 
ant  tint  of  madness  in  the  tones  that  startled 
him. 

Clarisse  stood  stunned,  still  holding  the 
door  open. 

The  doctor — slinging  the  .surgical  case  sus¬ 
pended  at  his  side  from  his  shoulder — ex¬ 
claimed  ! 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


69 


“What’s  that?” 

“I  don’t  know  sir.”  Replied  Clarisse, 
shuddering. 

“That  was  a  madman’s  voice.”  Muttered 
the  physician  to  himself. 

The  unnerved  female  heard  him,  and,  over¬ 
powered  by  the  long  continued  agitation  of  the 
day,  burst  into  lamentations. 

‘  ‘  Saints  save  us  !  What  more  ?  Is  there 
no  end  to  this  ?  Has  the  Tord  no  mercy  ?  ’  ’ 

“Where  is  the  sufferer?  Interrupted  the 
surgeon,  sternly.  “Cease  these  cries,  and 
answer,  or  I  will  leave  the  house  at  once.  ’  ’ 

Cowed  by  his  manner,  and  terrified  at  the 
idea  of  his  desertion,  the  maid  turned,  half 
fainting,  to  the  stairway,  and  crept,  with 
blanched  face  and  tremulous  reluctance  up  the 
stairs. 

As  Tefort  followed  her,  his  thoughts  came 
thick  and  fast.  Had  there  been  murder  here  ? 
Was  it  the  work  of  a  maniac  ?  Was  he  still  at 


70 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


large,  and  waiting  for  another  victim  ?  They 
reached  the  landing.  The  woman  paused,  as¬ 
tonished  to  find  the  hallway  empty. 

“  Go  on.  What  now?  ”  asked  the  doctor, 
rendered  uneasy  in  spite  of  himsel  by  his  own 
reflections,  and  the  fear-ridden  hesitations  of 
the  girl. 

Clarisse,  moving  forward,  said,  with  bated 
breath  : 

“  They’re  gone  !  ” 

The  words  had  scarcely  fallen  from  her  lips, 
when  Tefort,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  felt 
the  touch  ot  terror. 

As  Clarisse  arrived  in  front  of  the  chamber 
door  she  threw  up  her  hands,  with  a  frantic 
scream,  and  fell  senseless.  The  doctor  rushed 
forward  to  lift  her  up  ;  the  door  of  the  bed¬ 
room  was  shut  with  a  terrific  bang  ;  the  sound 
of  a  key  turning  in  the  lock  was  heard,  and 
a  voice  of  hopeless  misery  from  within, 
moaned  out  these  puzzling  words  : 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


71 


“No  no!  Damnation  first !  Damnation 
forever  !’’ 

As  the  priest  stood,  eager  to  greet  ignominy, 
and  grateful  for  disgrace, — courting  a  martyr¬ 
dom  which  God  alone  could  recognize,  and 
which  man  would  be  sure  to  regard  with  ridic¬ 
ule,  or  scorn, — a  thought  flashed  through  his 
brain  which  made  redemption  for  himself  ap¬ 
pear  an  infamy. 

While  awaiting  the  curse  of  the  coming 
servant,  and  the  revolt  of  his  dearest  friend, 

his  eyes  fell  upon  the  bed.  The  sight  of  that 
still  unconscious  beauty,  reminded  him  that 
his  humiliation  would  befoul  her  name,  and 
blast  the  life  which  Providence  might  yet  per¬ 
mit  her  to  live  upon  this  earth.  This  thought 
cut  him  to  his  spirit’s  core.  Its  agony  awoke 
that  comiseration  for  others  which  is  the  surest 
sign  of  oneness  with  God. 

Just  as  Clarisse  appeared  in  front  of  the 
chamber  door,  the  priest’s  face  was  frightfully 


72 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


distorted  by  the  torture  of  an  excruciating 
spiritual  pang. 

The  sight  of  that  face  struck  the  superstiti¬ 
ous  servant  to  the  floor. 

Before  the  doctor  could  discover  him,  Bon¬ 
nard  sprang  to  the  door,  closed  it  with  lighten¬ 
ing  velocity,  and  cried,  out  of  the  vast  depths 
of  his  Christ-like  heart : 

‘  ‘  No  no  !  Damnation  first !  Damnation 
forever  !  ’  ’ 

The  thought  of  the  abandoned  mother  had 
converted  the  martyr  into  a  man. 

A  precious,  human  affection — had  balked  a 
fiendish  faith. 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


73 


CHAPTER  IX. 

A  SOUE  FOR  A  SOUE. 

Everything  occurred  so  quickly,  and  with 
such  an  inexplicable  mystery,  that  even  the 
ready  Eefort  was  at;  fault. 

Trained  rationalist  as  he  was,  for  a  moment 
his  imagination  got  the  better  of  his  judgement. 

He  had  only  heard  from  Clarisse  of  her 
mistress ;  now  he  realized  the  horrible  truth. 
The  husband  was  a  maniac  ;  he  had  fatally 
injured  his  wife,  and  probably  murdered  the 
priest. 

Yes,  it  was  the  sight  of  the  monster,  covered 
with  the  blood  of  his  last  victim,  that  had  de¬ 
prived  the  servant  of  her  senses.  All  this 
was  as  clear  to  him  as  though  he  had  been  the 
witness  of  both  crimes.  He  saw  the  insane 


74 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


assassin,  knife  in  hand,  reeking  with  blood, 
and  believed  it  was  only  a  question  of  a  few 
minutes — seconds  perhaps — when  the  madman 
would  appear  and  attack  whomever  he  might 
see. 

For  his  own  safety  he  had  no  concern,  for  he 
felt  that  confidence  in  his  own  prowess  which 
the  intrepid  always  possess. 

For  the  helpless  creature  on  the  floor  he  ex¬ 
perienced  the  liveliest  anxiety.  He  dared 
not  desert  her  to  secure  assistance. 

What  should  he  do  ? 

He  paused  an  instant  in  deep  reflection,  and 
then,  with  an  impatient  toss  of  the  head  which 
said,  “there’s  no  use!  It  must  be  done!’’ 
he  raised  and  threw  the  .servant,  with  the  ease 
of  an  athlete,  over  his  shoulder  and  started 
down  the  stairs,  intending  to  bear  his  burden 
to  the  safety  of  the  street. 

He  reached  the  hallway  below  and  had  his 
hand  upon  the  knob  of  the  front  door,  when  a 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


75 


voice  said,  in  a  tone  of  the  most  imperative 
authority  : 

‘  ‘  Come  back  !  ’  * 

Lefort  flung  open  the  door,  standing  with 
every  nerve  braced  for  flight,  and  asked  : 

“Who  calls  ?  ’  ’ 

“  I  !  Father  Ambrose  !  ’  ’  sternly  replied 
the  voice. 

He  did  not  recognize  in  the  tense  tones  that 
reached  him,  the  tender  voice  of  the  kindly 
man  whose  devotion  to  suffering  had  so  com¬ 
pletely  conquered  his  materialistic  aversion  to 
the  priest. 

The  experienced  doctor,  knowing  the  cun¬ 
ning  of  mania,  believed  the  use  of  the  priest’s 
name  a  ruse  on  the  part  of  the  maniac,  to  en¬ 
tice  him  into  danger. 

Withdrawing  the  key  of  the  front  door  from 
the  inside,  he  shouted  loudly,  so  as  to  drown 
any  sound  his  action  might  produce. 

“Very  good.  I  will  be  with  you  in  a  mo¬ 
ment.  ’  * 


76 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


He  was  thrusting  the  key  into  the  lock, 
preparatory  to  closing  and  fastening  the  door 
from  the  outside,  when  the  voice  cried  out 
nearer  and  louder  : 

“You  must  come  at  once!  there’s  not  an 
instant  to  lose  !  ’  ’ 

The  physician  looked  up. 

Upon  a  landing  of  the  stairway  stood  the 
priest,  in  his  long,  impressive,  black  frock, 
with  an  air  so  terrible  and  commanding  that  it 
was  difficult  to  recognize,  in  the  majestic  fig¬ 
ure,  the  meek  and  lowly  priest  who  had  passed 
so  long  unnoted  by  the  world. 

Uefort  was  astounded.  All  his  suppositions 
were  at  fault.  The  mystery  was  more  per¬ 
plexing  than  ever.  Gazing  nonplussed  at 
Bonnard,  he  exclaimed  : 

“  In  the  name  of  Heaven,  what’s  going  on 
here  ? 5  * 

The  clergyman  coming  down  the  stairway, 
said  coldly  : 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


77 


‘  ‘  Rescue  first.  Explanation  later.  ’  ’ 

Then,  seeing  the  searching  expression  with 
which  the  doctor  regarded  him,  he  continued 
quickly,  fixing  his  eyes  on  Clarisse  : 

‘  ‘  I  will  help  you.  We  will  lay  her  yonder,  ’  ’ 
pointing,  through  a  curtained  archway  into  a 
room  at  one  side. 

Without  another  word,  the  two  men  bore 
the  servant  into  a  most  inviting  boudoir,  and 
laid  her  upon  a  Turkish  lounge. 

“Is  she  hurt?”  asked  the  priest  anxiously. 

No.  It’s  a  trival  case  of  syncope.  Lay  her 
head  lower.  There,  like  that.  She’ll  recover 
presently  of  herself.  ’  ’ 

“Then  follow  quickly,”  said  the  Ecclesi¬ 
astic,  turning  and  striding  up  the  stairs  with 
impatient  haste. 

The  doctor  kept  at  the  priest’s  heels,  eager 
for  a  solution  of  the  enigma  that  had  tor¬ 
mented  him  so  long. 

He  had  been  struck  by  the  curate’s  counten¬ 


ance. 


73 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


Something  out  of  the  ordinary  must  have 
happened  to  have  produced  so  marked  a 
change.  An  expression  of  inflexible  hardness 
had  taken  the  place  of  the  gentle  serenity, 
which  he  had  always  seen,  even  under  the  most 
trying  circumstances,  upon  the  pastor’s  patient 
face. 

As  they  reached  the  side  of  the  bed  in  the 
chamber  above,  Ambrose,  pointing  at  the  fair 
unconsciousness  upon  the  pillow,  moaned, 
with  an  unearthly  emphasis  :  ‘  ‘  The  dead  has 

been  raised  at  the  cost  of  a  soul  !  There’s  a 
soul  to  save  though  a  life  be  lost!” 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


79 


CHAPTER  X. 

‘  ‘  WHICH  OF  THE  TWO  ?  ’  ’ 

Eefort  glanced  with  quick  intensity  at 
Bonnard’s  face. 

What  he  saw  there  piqued  his  curiosity  and 
puzzled  his  impatient  mind. 

The  priest  was  manifestly  much  disturbed  ; 
far  more  indeed  than  was  natural  unless  he 
had  some  personal  stake  at  issue  in  this  house, 
of  which  he  never  yet  had  hinted,  even  to 
him,  his  nearest  friend. 

However,  Lefort  never  sought  a  confidence. 
Doubtless  at  the  right  moment  the  confiding 
man  would  tell  him  all.  Meantime  his  im¬ 
mediate  duty  was  to  the  half  living  girl,  who, 
in  some  peculiar  way,  was  the  cause  of  the 
young  curate’s  perturbations. 


8o 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


Satisfied  with  this  explanation,  the  doctor 
tnrned  to  the  task  before  him  and  commenced 
a  close  examination  of  what  was  to  prove  the 
most  surprising  case  that  had  ever  reached 
him  during  a  long  and  varied  career. 

Very  brief  inquisition  aroused  the  most  in¬ 
tense  interest  in  his  scientific  mind. 

He  saw  that  he  had  in  hand  the  treatment 
of  one  of  those  anomalous  attacks  which  break 
up  the  monotony  of  general  practice,  and  open 
new  fields  in  pathology  to  the  most  advanced 
student  of  medical  art. 

As  the  investigation  proceeded  the  good  man 
grunted,  shook  his  head,  pursed  his  lips, 
rubbed  his  forehead,  stroked  his  chin,  and 
every  now  and  then  muttered  to  himself: 

“Ha!  Yes!  Humph!  I  see!  Of  course! 
The  devil !  Incredible !  Is  it  possible  ?  ’  ’ 

Tucking  the  clothes  about  the  fair  young 
creature,  with  a  tenderness  almost  maternal,  he 
exclaimed  roughly: 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


8l 


‘  ‘  L,emaitre  must  come  immediately.  ’  ’ 

Bonnard,  fixing  liis  eyes  on  the  motionless 
form  in  the  bed,  inquired: 

“  Well?” 

“  It’s  an  infernally  queer  case!”  growled 
L,efort,  with  his  ear  at  the  patient’s  waist. 
The  child’s  heart  is  actually  stronger  than  the 
woman’s,  and  the  confounded  little  affair  beats 
with  a  calm  and  regularity  perfectly  absurd, 
considering  its  parent’s  condition.  Why, 
hang  it!  the  mother’s  heart  is  almost  silent, 
though  her  pulse  is  quite  strong  and  fully  ioo. 
Her  respiration,  too,  is  ridiculously  inconsis¬ 
tent  with  such  a  pulse.  May  I  burst  if  its 
over  eight.  ’  ’ 

All  this  was  said  with  a  sort  of  indignation, 
as  though  this  irregularity  of  Nature  were  an 
outrage  upon  his  beloved  science. 

The  priest’s  eyes  dilated  as  he  learned  the 
strength  of  the  infant’s  heart.  Looking  earn¬ 
estly  at  the  experienced  accoucher,  he  asked  : 


82 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


“  What’s  your  decision  ?’ 

The  curate  longed  to  know  what  the  doctor 
intended  to  do  regarding  those  threatened 
lives.  A  horrible  fear  possessed  him,  and  he 
wished  to  learn  the  worst  at  once. 

The  physician,  supposing  he  meant  to  ques¬ 
tion  him  concerning  the  nature  of  the  com¬ 
plaint,  said: 

“It’s  difficult  to  diagnose  correctly.  It 
looks  like  an  acute  case  of  puerperal  hysteria.” 

Then,  forgetting  good  manners  and  the  pro¬ 
fession  of  his  friend,  he  continued  gruffly: 

“  It’s  a  damned  uncertain  complaint.  Cap¬ 
ricious,  whimsical,  irritating !  No  telling 
which  way  it  will  turn.” 

Putting  his  hand  quickly  to  his  breast 
pocket  he  drew  out  a  pad  of  paper,  saying: 

“  I  must  have  assistance.  You  must  go  for 
Temaitre.  ’  ’ 

Father  Ambrose,  by  a  manifest  effort, 
withdrew  his  eyes  from  the  patient’s  face  and 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


83 


gazed  steadfastly  out  of  the  window.  The 
doctor  hastily  scribbled  the  following  note: 

My  Dear  Jacques:  Come  instantly  with  Amelie.  We  shall 
need  her  skillful  aid.  I  have  a  very  complicated  case  of  dystocia. 

In  the  third  drawer  from  the  top  of  my  surgical  chest  you  will 
find  the  following  instruments. 

1  Braun’s  Trephine. 

1  Braun’s  Cranioclast. 

1  Breisky’s  Cephalotribe. 

1  Tarnier’s  Basiotribe. 

1  Vectice. 

1  Crotchet,  and  also  my  Axis  Traction  Forceps  [Tarnier’s], 
the  longest  one. 

We  may  possibly  save  both  mother  and  child,  but  will  be 
lucky  if  either  lives. 

We  must  be  prepared  for  either  embryotomy  or  the  Ceasarian 
sectiou.  I  have  all  the  knives  necessary  for  the  last  operation 
with  me. 

In  the  closet  of  my  desk  you  will  find  a  caoutchouc  diaphragm, 
as  well  as  dam  and  apron. 

Bring  a  speculum  and  all  the  auti-septics,  especially  the  Bi¬ 
chloride  Solution. 

We  shall  need  many  sponges  and  these  drugs: 

Chloroform. 

Ether. 

Nitrate  of  amyl. 

Brandy 

I  have  all  the  rest  we  are  likely  to  require. 

The  case  is  a  desperate  one,  and  whatever  operation  the  rela¬ 
tives  may  decide  upou  it  is  sure  to  be  a  long  and  dangerous  one. 

Forget  nothing — and  hurry— hurry—- hurry  ! 

Eefort. 

By  the  way,  you’ll  find  a  Tarnier’s  cervical  dilator  on  the  shelf 
in  the  dispensary.  Amelie  will  know  where  to  find  the  rubber 
sheet. 


84 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


As  he  completed  the  writing  of  these  direc¬ 
tions,  the  physician  held  it  toward  his  com¬ 
panion,  commanding  him  as  though  he  were 
his  servant: 

“  Here  !  Be  off  with  this  to  Jacques  !’ 

The  priest  rose  with  dignity,  and,  pointing 
into  the  street,  said: 

“  Your  cab  is  at  the  door.  Your  coachman 
can  take  your  message.”  Then,  in  a  tone  of 
invincible  conviction  ;  ‘  ‘  I  must  not  leave  her.  ’  ’ 

Tefort  glanced  searchingly  at  that  sad,  set, 
face  then,  he  started  for  the  door — grumbling  : 

“Yes,  quite  right.  Robert  will  do  as  well.  ’  ’ 

Speeding  down  the  stairs,  he  hurried  out  of 
the  house  to  the  garden  gate,  shouting  imper¬ 
atively  to  the  coachman  as  he  handed  him  the 
note : 

‘  ‘  To  Monsieur  Temaitre  !  Tike  lightening  ! 
Tell  Mademoiselle  Amelie  to  come  prepared 
for  the  worst,  and  hurry  back  with  both  of 
them.” 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


85 


Robert,  seizing  the  paper,  sprang  upon  the 
seat  of  his  cab,  crying  : 

“Very  well,  Monsieur  !  ”  and  started  his 
horse  on  a  wild  run. 

“  That’s  right !  ”  howled  the  doctor,  after 
him — ‘ 4  drive  for  your  very  life  !  ’  ’ 

The  cab  tore  round  the  corner.  The  surg¬ 
eon  re-entered  the  house. 

He  found  Clarisse,  leaning  against  the  side 
of  the  curtained  archway,  watching  him  with 
distended  eyes  and  a  blanched  face. 

His  absorption,  in  a  far  more  pressing  attack 
than  hers,  had  led  the  medical  practitioner  to 
forget  the  servant.  She  had  recovered,  as  he 
knew  she  would,  without  extraneous  help,  but 
he  saw  that  she  was  unnerved,  and  weak,  from 
fear.  Her  aid  was  important.  He  must 
brace  her  up  and  awaken  her  energies  in  the 
interest  of  her  mistress. 

.She  was  a  woman — therefore  she  had  a  heart. 

She  was  a  female — therefore  fond  of  flattery. 


86 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


An  appeal  to  vanity  and  affection  often  con¬ 
verts  the  most  timid  and  stupid  of  women  into 
a  heroine! 

He  would  perform  this  wonder  with  Clarisse. 

He  began  the  process  in  a  way  that  was  not 
long  in  producing  results. 

“  Ha  !  My  good  women,”  he  cried,  cheer¬ 
ily,  “  thank  Heaven  !  you’re  all  right  at  last. 
Now  I  have  you  to  help  me,  I  fear  nothing.” 

”  But  Monsieur - ” 

”  There,  there  !  I  know  what  you’re  going 
to  say  !  You’re  ignorant ;  you  don’t  know 
how  to  help  ;  and  yet  I’ll  warrant  you’re  a  lit¬ 
tle  lionness,  and  full  of  brains.” 

‘  *  Oh  Monsieur  !  ’  ’ 

The  dulcet  dose  was  already  doing  its  brac¬ 
ing  work. 

“No  protests  !  I  see  a  strong,  brave, 
heart  looking  through  those  great,  big,  beauti¬ 
ful  eyes  of  yours.  I’d  stake  my  life,  that  you 
love  your  mistress.” 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


87 


“  Oh  indeed  I  do  !  ”  exclaimed  Clarisse, 
advancing — earnestly.  ‘  ‘  Is  she  alive  ?  Can 
she  be  saved  ?”  cried  the  now  energetic  girl. 

“  Bravo  !  I  was  right.  You  are  a  kind, 
courageous  soul,  and  will  wake  up  and  work 
like  a  slave  to  save  a  life.  ’  ’ 

“  Oh  !  for  that,  yes  !  Wear  my  fingers  off, 
anything  !  ’  * 

This  was  said  with  such  genuine  enthusiasm 
that  the  doctor  was  delighted. 

“God  bless  you,  child  !  The  life  of  your 
mistress  is  trembling  in  the  balance.  With  all 
my  skill,  I  can  do  nothing  without  you.  May 
I  count  on  you?” 

The  girl  clasped  his  hand  violently  in  both 
of  hers,  and  exclaimed  passionately  : 

“Yes — to  the  last  breath  in  my  body  !’’ 

The  marvel  was  achieved;  the  apparently 
dull  and  timorous  girl,  had  become  an  alert, 
intelligent,  determined  woman,  ready  for  the 
most  heroic  deeds. 


88 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


The  doctor,  exultant,  cried  : 

“  Follow  me  !  We  will  save  her  now,  sure!” 

He  was  half  way  up  the  stairs,  when  his 
progress  was  again  arrested  by  the  capricious 
weakening  of  Clarisse. 

“One  moment,  Monsieur!”  cried  the 
girl  stopping  resolutely,  with  her  hand  on  the 
newel-post  of  the  bannisters.  “I  can  not, 
dare  not  go  up  there  !” 

‘  ‘  Of  what  are  you  afraid  ?  J  ’ 

The  woman  blurted  out : 

‘  ‘  Of  that  devil  !  ’ ’ 

‘  ‘  What  devil  ?  ’  ’ 

‘  ‘  The  horrible  naked  monster  I  saw  in 
Madame’s  room,  just  now.” 

Moments  were  too  precious  to  be  wasted  in 
reasoning  with  such  superstitious  folly.  He 
must  use  heroic  measures;  crush,  not  coax 
her  fears.  With  this  conviction  the  physician 
stared  at  Clarisse,  with  penetrating  sternness  in 
his  eyes. 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


89 


“  L,ook  you,  young  woman  !  I’m  not  to  be 
trifled  with.  There  is  no  devil  here,  only  an 
angel  at  the  point  of  death,  whom  you  prom¬ 
ised  to  help  keep  on  earth.  This  nonsense 
must  end.  Are  you  the  brave  heart  I  believed 
you,  or  only  a  poor,  puling  fool,  who  is  terri¬ 
fied  at  some  silly  bugaboo  born  of  her  own 
brain  ?  ’  ’ 

This  speech  accomplished  its  purpose.  The 
girl,  with  a  sudden  impatient  twist  of  her 
body,  started  up  the  stairway,  saying  : 

“Go  on,  Monsieur.  I’ve  been  an  idiot! 
Hereafter  I’ll  try  to  be  of  use.” 

“Good!”  cried  Tefort,  bounding  up  the 
steps  like  a  boy,  “  now  to  work  !  ’’ 

They  hurried  into  “  Madame’s  room.’’ 

The  priest  was  seated  near  the  bed,  with  his 
elbows  on  his  knees,  supporting  his  face  in  his 
hands.  As  the  doctor  returned,  he  lifted  his 
head.  Clarisse  fell  back  a  step  with  a  half 
suppressed,  involuntary  cry,  looking  at  Am- 


90 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


brose,  who  rose  with  the  blush  of  a  maiden  on 
his  cheeks,  and  walked  to  the  window.  The 
physician’s  quick  eye  saw  this  mutual  embar¬ 
rassment,  but  impatient  at  anything  causing 
more  delay,  he  said  angrily,  to  the  servant : 

‘  ‘  What  now  ?  ’  ’ 

“  Nothing,  Monsieur.  What  am  I  to  do?  ” 
nervously  questioned  the  girl. 

“  Find  a  night  dress  for  Madame,  take  it  to 
the  kitchen,  heat  it  as  hot  as  possible,  wrap  it 
in  a  blanket,  and  return  fast  as  you  can.” 

Clarisse  flew  to  the  closet,  caught  a  garment 
from  a  hook,  and  hurried  from  the  room.  As 
her  steps  were  heard  upon  the  stairs,  the  cur¬ 
ate  greeted  the  doctor  with  an  appealing  cry  : 

“In  the  name  of  pity  end  this  atrocious 
suspense  !  Tell  me  what  is  to  be  done  !  ’  ’ 

“  It  is  not  for  me  to  decide.” 

‘  ‘  Who  then  ?  ’  ’ 

“  The  husband.” 

‘  ‘She  has  none,  ’  * 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


91 


Tefort  turned  quickly. 

Bonnard,  horrified  at  this  inadvertant  be¬ 
trayal  of  the  truth,  flushed,  and  stammered  : 

“  I  mean  that — that — he’s  not  here.” 

‘  ‘  Where  is  he  ?  ” 

“  I  don’t  know.” 

‘  ‘  Can  we  reach  him  ?  ’  ’ 

“  Not  at  present.” 

The  physician,  growing  pale,  asked  anx¬ 
iously  : 

‘  ‘  And  the  other  relatives  ?  ’  ’ 

The  priest  bowed  his  head,  murmuring  : 

“I  have  reason  to  believe  that  none  are 
near.  ’  ’ 

1  ‘  Great  God  !  Must  I  decide  then  ?  ’  ’ 
shouted  the  doctor,  scowling  at  his  patient. 

“  I  don’t  understand,”  muttered  the  priest, 
aghast  with  a  painful  suspicion. 

The  surgeon  pointed  at  the  bed  and  said  in 
a  hoarse  voice  : 

“Those  two  lives  yonder  are  at  stake.  I 


92 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


can  save  but  one.  It  is  for  the  husband  to  de¬ 
cide  which  shall  be  sacrificed.  He  cannot  be 
consulted.  Delay  is  death  to  both.  Do  you 
understand  now  ?  ’  ’ 

The  curate  wrung  his  hands  with  a  pathetic 
misery,  the  extremity  of  which  imcomphre- 
hensible  to  the  worried  witness  of  the  scene. 
Suddenly,  Ambrose  threw  up  his  arms;  fell  on 
his  knees  at  the  side  of  the  bed,  and  cried 
aloud  in  agony  : 

“  Merciful  Christ  !  Which  of  these  prec¬ 
ious  lives  can  our  weak  hearts  condemn  ?  ’  * 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


93 


CHAPTER  XI. 

“how  evidence  can  die.” 

Ambrose,  broken  and  exhausted  by  the 
storm  of  emotion  which  had  swept  through  his 
ardent  being  for  so  long,  buried  his  face  in  the 
clothes  of  the  young  girl,  and  sobbed  with  the 
uncontrollable  passion  of  a  child.  That  divine 
paroxysm  of  the  spirit  which  he  suffered  at  the 
possibility  of  eternal  pain  to  either  of  these 
living  ones,  with  whom  he  had  just  passed 
through  such  a  strange  and  binding  experi¬ 
ence,  can  only  be  fully  understood  by  a  heart 
in  rapport  with  the  boundless  compassion 
which  cried  to  God  from  Calvary  :  ‘  ‘  Father 
forgive  them  for  they  know  not  what  they  do  !” 

Even  the  doctor,  benevolent  and  brainy  as 
he  was,  mistook  the  misery  of  the  priest, — 
which  was  really  due  to  the  vast  power  and 


94 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


capacity  of  his  love, — for  the  weakness  of 
madness,  or  of  a  secret  sin.  He  was  terribly 
right.  He  was  fearfully  wrong!  Here,  in¬ 
deed  was  madness  ;  here  indeed  was  sin.  But 
the  able  physician  with  all  his  science,  was  in¬ 
capable  of  diagnosing  the  real  nature  of  these 
calamities  in  their  connection  with  the  excep¬ 
tional  man  whose  prostration  perplexed  him  so 
much.  The  madness  of  the  honest  Ambrose 
was  of  that  crushing  kind  which  must,  inevit¬ 
ably,  be  developed  when  a  great,  humane, 
heart  believes,  with  absolute  faith,  in  the 
diabolical  doctrine  of  eternal  hell. 

What  did  Lefort,  the  shrewd  son  of  science, 
the  brilliant  student  of  human  nature,  see  in 
the  actions  of  Ambrose  ? 

This  intellectual  man  of  the  world  saw,  in 
what  was  really  the  result  of  the  divinest  inner 
life,  only  the  proof  that  Bonnard  was  that 
most  depraved  of  spiritual  monsters — a  hypo¬ 
crite.  To  him  the  priest’s  sobs  were  simply 


FATHKR  AMBROSE. 


95 


an  unrestrained  expression  of  regret  at  the 
prospect  of  a  personal  loss. 

This  marvelously  lovely  girl  had  been  the 
victim  of  the  recreant  ecclesiastic’s  passion;  this 
doomed  child,  as  yet  unborn,  was  the  offspring 
of  the  sworn  celibate’s  secret  sin  ;  of  the  Phar¬ 
isaical  pietist’s  hidden  sensuality.  To  the  sci¬ 
entist  the  saint  had  suddenly  become  the 
meanest  of  sinners.  With  a  sagacity  highly 
gratifying  to  his  own  amour  propre,  this  wise 
master  of  the  science  of  man  recalled,  and 
placed  in  a  most  denouncing  order,  all  the 
evidence  which  his  quick  observation  had  col¬ 
lected  of  the  truth  of  his  conclusion. 

This  evidence  took  the  following  form : 
First — the  fact  that  he  had  been  summoned  by 
Bonnard  himself ;  the  wild  cries  that  greeted 
him  as  he  entered  the  house  ;  the  peculiar  se¬ 
cretiveness  and  hesitation  of  Clarisse  ;  her  sud¬ 
den  senselessness ;  the  sharp,  angry,  slam  of 
the  chamber  door,  which  could  only  have  been 


96 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


made  by  Ambrose,  who,  evidently  taken  by 
surprise  feared  the  detection  of  the  truth  ;  the 
complete  change  in  the  priest’s  expression  ; 
his  air  of  authority  in  this  house  ;  his  prompt 
declaration  that  this  mother  was  not  a  wife, 
and  his  instant  stammering  attempt  to  recall 
this  admission.  Then  there  was  his  embarrass¬ 
ment  before  the  servant ;  her  suspicious  allus¬ 
ions  to  ‘  ‘the  naked  monster  in  Madame’ s  room,  ’  ’ 
and  finally  the  man’s  overwhelming  and  mys¬ 
terious  agony. 

Yes — it  was  as  clear  as  the  sun  upon  a  cloud¬ 
less  day.  There  was  but  one  explanation  of 
this  extraordinary  series  of  suspicious  signs. 

The  young  mother  was  the  curate’s  mistress. 

The  servant  had  discovered  his  shameful 
secret,  and  he  had  still  enough  of  decency  to 
blush  in  her  presence. 

The  sweet  face  of  this  girlish  maternity,  on 
which  nature  had  placed  the  seal  of  so  singular 
a  purity,  had  been  polluted  by  the  caresses  of 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


97 


a  paramour,  who  was  an  apostate  to  his  holi¬ 
est  vows.  Iyefort  saw,  reasoned  and  believed, 
this  damnable  hideous  untruth. 

Such  is  the  facility  with  which  the  cleverest 
minds,  and  oftentimes  the  kindest  hearts,  can 
arrive  at  the  most  false  and  fearful  convictions, 
from  ‘  ‘  trifles  light  as  air.  ’  ’ 

Such  is  the  power  of  appearances. 

Such  is  the  value  of  mere  circumstantial 
condemnation. 

No  wonder  slanders  succeed  so  safely  and 
so  well ;  no  wonder  innocence  is  crushed  so 
often  and  with  such  ease ;  no  wonder  real 
criminals  escape,  while  the  guiltless  pine  in 
prison,  or  are  coolly  murdered  by  the  law! 

Let  those  who  are  too  ready  to  believe  the 
worst  of  their  fellow  men,  remember — how 
evidence  can  lie. 


98 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE  DOCTOR’S  DECISION. 

The  doctor’s  horrible  suspicions  took  shape 
and  sequence  in  one-tenth  of  the  time  it  takes 
to  state  them.  The  first  effect  of  his  deceptive 
conclusion  was  to  arouse  a  storm  of  indignant 
seom-  this  soon  passed  off,  however,  as  he 
witnessed  the  depth  of  the  priest’s  despair, 

‘  f  Nature  is  stronger  than  creeds.  Passion 
more  potent  than  piety.  These  priests  are  but 
men,  after  all,  and  only  the  more  to  be  pitied 
that  natural  joys  are  denied  them  by  the  cor¬ 
rupting  conventions  of  clerical  life.”  Thus 
musing  he  opened  his  medicine  case,  obtained 
from  it  a  powerful  preparation  of  Ignatia,  and 
proceeded  to  mix  it  with  water  in  a  glass. 

The  afflicted  victim  of  superstition  arose. 


father  Ambrose. 


99 


His  pent  up  tide  of  anguish  had  broken  loose 
and  poured  out  its  seething  force  in  tears, 
What  new  tests  of  his  faith  and  fortitude  were 
coming  he  neither  knew  nor  cared.  He  be¬ 
lieved  himself  resigned  to  bear  any  further 
pang  that  providence  might  permit.  He  was 
soon  to  realize  how  far  astray  his  calculations 
of  his  own  endurance  were. 

Defort,  abruptly  jarring  with  his  heavy  hand 
the  now  listless  father,  extended  a  glass  before 
him,  and  said,  brutally:  “  Drink  that!  ” 

Bonnard’s  lids  quivered,  then  his  cleared 
eyes  sought  those  of  his  companion  in  pathe¬ 
tic  surprise.  He  was  vaguely  conscious  of 
some  antagonism  which  he  could  not  explain. 
Defort,  scowling,  averted  his  face. 

Ambrose  drank  in  silence,  with  the  meelk 
docility  of  a  child  who  scornfully  repents  some 
unintentional  offense  to  a  friend.  When  he 
had  drained  the  glass,  he  handed  it  back, 
glancing  appealingly  at  his  old  comrade,  who 


IOO 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


unceremoniously  snatched  the  goblet  and 
passed  at  once  to  a  dressing  room,  the  door  of 
which  stood  half  open  between  the  window 
and  the  bed.  It  seemed  to  the  sore  conscience 
of  the  ascetic,  as  though  the  doctor  in  some 
mysterious  way,  had  learned  of  his  pardonless 
sin.  Feeling  the  lassitude  of  a  hopeless  resig¬ 
nation,  he  leaned  against  the  wall  at  the  head 
of  the  bed,  and  turned,  with  the  dumb  instinct 
of  some  friendless  brute,  toward  the  one  face 
in  this  wide  world  where  he  felt  sure  he  should 
find  no  sign  or  shadow  of  reproach.  An  al¬ 
most  intimate  fellowship  seemed  in  some  subtle 
way  to  be  growing  between  the  deserted  and 
himself. 

Both  of  them  were  doomed;  she  to  death;  he 
to  damnation. 

As  he  looked  at  this  mate  of  his  misery,  a 
healthier  tint  appeared  upon  her  cheeks.  His 
heart  leapt  with  a  wild  delight.  She  was 
growing  stronger!  Might  not  the  doctor  be 
wrong  ?  Why  should  not  both  be  saved  ? 


FATHER  AMBROSE.  IOt 

Trembling  with  joy,  he  was  bending  closer 
to  assure  himself  of  her  increasing  strength, 
when  Clarisse,  hurrying  into  the  room,  stopped 
short  with  a  gasp  of  disgust.  He  looked  up. 
A  sickening  shame  invaded  him  at  the  sight  of 
the  sneering  maid.  Humiliation  succeeded  the 
spasm  of  happiness,  which  for  one  fleet  flash  of 
time  he  was  permitted  to  enjoy. 

The  priest’s  eyes  fell  before  the  peasant’s. 

A  moment’s  silence  ensued,  during  which 
the  man’s  natural  dignity  reasserted  itself  in 
the  face  of  this  female’s  fine  contempt.  He 
was  a  sinner — with  an  eternal  stain  upon  his 
soul.  What  then  ?  God,  not  man,  should  con¬ 
demn.  He  would  gladly  have  welcomed  the 
bitterest  scorn  to  wipe  his  sin  away,  but  now, 
since  that  was  impossible  without  besmearing 
the  precious  innocence  of  others,  he  revolted  at 
the  insolence  of  this  peasant  who  presumed 
to  be  his  judge.  These  thoughts  bred  rebel¬ 
lion  in  the  breast  of  this  self -abasing  man. 


102 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


Looking  straight  into  the  eyes  of  the  con¬ 
temptuous  creature  before  him, his  own  gleam¬ 
ing  with  indignation,  he  said  in  tones  of  aus¬ 
tere  authority:  “  Woman  to  wosk!  How  dare 
you  stare  while  she  suffers  ?  ’  ’ 

Clarisse,  crushed  by  the  commanding  man¬ 
ner  of  the  priest,  cringed  instantly,  and  said 
with  tremulous  meekness:  “  Pardon  Monsieur. 
I  am  awaiting  the  doctor’s  commands.” 

These  words  recalled  Ambrose’s  hope.  Turn¬ 
ing  to  the  door  of  the  dressing  room  he  said 
excitedly :  ‘  ‘  Lefort !  Doctor !  ’  ’ 

Before  Bonnard  could  say  more,  the  physi¬ 
cian  appeared,  dragging  into  the  room  a  toilet 
stand  which  he  had  divested  of  all  its  parapher¬ 
nalia,  and  interrupted  the  speaker  by  grumb¬ 
ling  loudly:  “  Well,  what  now?  ” 

‘  ‘  See !  The  color  is  growing  in  her  face !  ’  ’ 
“Good!”  cried  Lefort,  placing  the  dress¬ 
ing  stand  in  front  of  the  window. 

‘  ‘  Do  you  think  she  can  be  saved  ?  ’  ’  asked 
Ambrose,  eagerly. 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


103 


‘  ‘  She  shall  be  saved !  ’  ’ 

‘  ‘  Thank  God !  Thank  God !  ’  ’  exclaimed 
the  priest,  lifting  his  tear-flooded  eyes  in  an 
ecstacy  of  gratitude  that  both  should  live. 

Had  the  faithful  fanatic  remarked  the  em¬ 
phasis  of  the  physician  his  cry  of  joy  would 
have  been  checked.  As  it  was,  the  doctor’s 
assurance  of  the  mother’s  salvation  led  him  to 
place  implicit  confidence  in  the  delivery  and 
rescue  of  the  child.  Radiant,  with  the  cer¬ 
tainty  that  neither  would  be  lost,  he  sank  into 
a  chair  at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  every  beat  of 
his  heart  a  benediction  to  the  God  who  had 
deigned  to  heed  his  prayers. 

The  delight  of  the  priest  was  but  another 
confirmation  to  the  doctor  of  his  false  conclu¬ 
sions,  and  illy  prepared  him  to  understand  the 
struggle  that  was  shortly  to  ensue  between 
them. 

As  the  surgeon  turned  from  the  table  toward 
the  bed,  he  saw  that  Clarisse  was  standing 


104 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


upon  the  opposite  side  with  a  bundle  in  her 
hands  and  an  expression  of  blank  amazement 
upon  her  face. 

The  commingling  of  audacity  and  delight  in 
the  priest  were  too  much  for  her  limited  capa¬ 
city  to  comprehend.  The  perplexity  however 
was  quickly  ended  by  the  energetic  directions 
of  Tefort. 

“  Ha!  Here  at  last!  ”  he  snarled.  “  Is  the 
blanket  still  warm  ?  ’  ’ 

“Yes  Monsieur.” 

‘  ‘  And  the  night  dress  ?  ’  * 

“  Is  hot,  also,  Monsieur.” 

“  Quick!  the  blanket  around  her  waist,  and 
the  dress  over  her  head !  ’  ’ 

The  hands  of  the  doctor  and  the  servant 
were  speedily  busy,  clothing  the  girlish  form 
in  the  bed. 

While  these  two  were  at  work  Bonnard  was 
lost  in  silent  supplication  of  the  saints,  for  as¬ 
sistance  in  this  hour  of  supreme  suspense. 


FATHER  AMBROSE.  105 

A  horse  galloped  rapidly  to  the  gate. 

The  doctor  ran  to  the  window  shouting 
cheerily,  as  though  a  dance  instead  of  a  dan¬ 
gerous  operation  was  about  to  occur. 

“  They’re  here!  ” 

Turning  with  animation  to  Clarisse,  he  con¬ 
tinued: 

“  Now  my  good  girl  hurry!  L,et  them  in, 
and  bring  me  two  pails  of  boiling  water  as  fast 
as  you  can.” 

The  servant,  exceedingly  agitated  as  the 
sinister  moment  approached,  flew  from  the  room. 
Eefort  commenced  the  final  scrutation  which 
was  to  determine  his  decision.  Amelie,  the 
doctor’s  sister  and  most  skillful  assistant,  now 
hastily  entered.  She  was  followed  by  L,emai- 
tre,  her  brother’s  young  apprentice,  who  car¬ 
ried  in  his  hands  a  heavy  and  terrible-looking 
bag. 

“Well,  Earnest?”  murmured  Amelie, 
quietly,  leaning  across  the  bed. 


io6 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


Earnest,  completing  his  examination,  placed 
his  ear  to  the  patient’s  chest. 

“  Heart  action  somewhat  stronger.  Pulse 
about  a  hundred  and  eight.  Respiration, 
now,  about  fifteen.  Temperature  abnormally 
low.  ’  ’ 

‘  ‘  What  are  the  chances  ?  ’  ’ 

“  Possibly  one  in  three.” 

“  For  both  ?  ” 

“  No,  for  one  only.”  ^ 

‘  ‘  What  have  her  relatives  decided  ?  ’  ’ 

‘  ‘  There  are  none  of  her  relatives  here.  I 
am  forced  to  decide  between  them  myself.  ’  ’ 

“  And  your  decision  is - ” 

‘ ‘  Embryotomy,”  said  the  physician,  rais¬ 
ing  his  head  with  a  white,  stern  face. 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


107 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE  STRUGGLE. 

While  Amelie  was  questioning  her  brother, 
the  priest  retired  to  a  seat  at  the  further  end  of 
the  room  near  a  window  and  watched  vacantly, 
the  fast  setting  sun.  The  doctor’s  decision  to 
destroy  the  babe  did  not  reach  the  ascetic’s 
ears. 

Eemaitre  had  hurried  instinctively  to  the 
dressing  stand,  upon  which  he  was  placing  the 
dreadful  objects  he  took  from  the  bag.  At  the 
word  ‘  ‘  embryotony  ’  ’  he  turned  to  his  master 
and  asked  :  ‘  ‘  which  process  ?  ’  ’ 

“The  indications  demand  basiotripsy,’’ 
was  the  physician’s  firm  reply. 

Amelie  had  already  opened  the  bed  upon  the 
further  side,  and  was  spreading  the  rubber 


io8 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


sheet.  The  apprentice  raised  the  basiotribe, 
which  looked  liked  some  relic  of  the  Inquisition, 
and  unscrewing  its  terrible  clamp,  opening  its 
crushing  jaws,  and  unmasking  its  cruel  perfor¬ 
ator,  he  annointed  it  for  the  sacrifice  with  an 
antiseptic  oil. 

The  surgeon  drew  from  his  medicine  case  a 
set  of  knives. 

While  all  this  was  proceeding,  the  priest 
looked  on  scarcely  conscious,  until  his  atten¬ 
tion  was  finally  attracted  by  certain  movements 
of  the  physicians  which  indicated  that  an  op¬ 
eration  was  about  to  commence. 

They  hastily  threw  off  their  coats  and  vests. 

Lefort  stripped  his  scarf  from  his  neck,  un¬ 
fastened  his  collar,  and  freed  his  brawny 
throat,  rolling  his  shirts  sleeves  high  up  on 
his  arms.  He  then  took  from  the  hands  of 
Temaitre  a  rubber  apron,  one  loop  of  which  he 
passed  over  his  head,  tying  the  centre  about 
his  waist. 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


109 


The  suggestion  of  the  butchery  so  near  at 
hand  was  revolting. 

The  priest  realized  that  something  fearful 
was  pending.  He  advanced  with  a  livid  face, 
and  said,  looking  in  horror  at  the  tools  of  tor¬ 
ture  upon  the  table  :  ‘  ‘  are  you  going  to  use 
these  ?  ’  ’ 

“Some  of  them.”  Growled  the  preoccu¬ 
pied  operator. 

Ambrose  shuddered,  staggered  slightly,  and 
then  steadied  himself  against  a  chair,  faint 
and  sick  at  heart. 

Temaitre  assisted  Amelie  in  placing  the  pa¬ 
tient  upon  the  rubber  sheet. 

Lefort  went  to  their  aid. 

Clarisse  entered  with  pails  of  boiling  water. 
Amelie  directed  her  to  place  them  at  the  foot  of 
the  bed,  and  then  whispered  : 

‘  ‘  Now,  be  quick  !  a  bowl  !  ’  ’ 

The  servant  slipped  hurriedly  into  the  dress¬ 
ing  room;  the  surgeons  placed  their  subject 


IIO 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


in  position;  Clarisse  reappeared  with  the  bowl. 

Amelie  took  the  vessel  from  the  servant’s 
hands  saying  :  ‘  ‘  Lights  !  It  will  soon  be  dark. 
Bring  two  of  the  largest  lamps  you  have.” 

The  servant  sped  noiselessly  away. 

Amelie  filled  the  bowl  half  full  of  hot  water. 
Her  brother  passed  her  a  bottle  and  a  pair  of 
sponges.  She  poured  a  liquid  from  the  vial 
into  the  bowl,  stirring  it  with  one  of  the 
sponges.  She  was  preparing  the  antiseptic 
wash  for  the  dangerous  wounds  they  were 
about  to  inflict. 

The  agonizing  moment  was  at  hand. 

An  awful  .silence  settled  upon  the  scene. 

Even  the  surgeons  grew  pale  and  breathed 
deeply,  as  their  preparations  neared  an  end. 

The  young  priest,  terrified,  yet  fascinated, 
stared  helplessly  at  those  horrible  knives. 

Instants  were  magnified  into  ages. 

It  was  all  like  a  grotesque  dream. 

Eefort  handed  something  made  of  rubber  to 
Lemaitre,  saying  ; 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


Ill 


‘  ‘  The  dilator.  Commence.  ’  ’ 

Temaitre  slipped  the  tool  into  the  bowl,  and — 
commenced. 

The  brother  handed  a  little  syringe  to  his  sis¬ 
ter  and  said,  with  quiet  authority  : 

‘  ‘  Hold  her  pulse  and  stand  ready  to  use 
the  hyperdermic.  At  the  first  sign  of  weaken¬ 
ing,  inject  the  brandy.” 

Amelie  grasped  the  patient’s  wrist,  and 
stood  with  ghastly  cheeks,  pinched  lips,  and 
fixed  eyes,  looking  at  the  subject,  ready  for 
the  worst. 

The  senior  surgeon,  then  said  to  his  appren¬ 
tice  :  "now,  let’s  hurry!  I  will  use  the  in¬ 
strument,  you  hold  the  body.” 

At  this  moment  Clarisse  returned  with  the 
lighted  lamps,  placed  them  on  a  stand  near 
the  bed,  and  leaned  against  the  wall,  agape 
with  sickening  expectations. 

Temaitre  began  the  sponging  process. 

Tefort  turned  to  the  table  and  lifted  the 
basiotribe. 


1 12 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


Bonnard  glided  between  the  doctor  and  the 
bed,  his  hands  clasped  with  pitiful  intensity 
upon  his  chest,  and  whispered:  “what  are 
you  going  to  do  ?  ’ } 

“  Commence  the  operation,”  replied  the  sur¬ 
geon  sternly. 

‘ 1  What  operation  ?’  ’ 

“Craniotomy.  I  am  forced  to  adopt  the 
basiotripsic  process  and  crush  the  base  of  the 
infant’s  skull.” 

“What?”  cried  Ambrose,  with  a  voice 
full  of  ringing  resonance;  murder  the  child  ?  ” 

‘  ‘  No !  ’  ’  shouted  the  doctor,  indignant  at 
the  word  ‘  ‘  murder;  ”  “I  remove  an  embryon 
to  save  a  mother.  ’  ’ 

The  proportions  of  the  priest  became  impos¬ 
ing.  Trembling  with  righteous  wrath,  he 
struck  his  fist  so  forcibly  upon  the  table  that 
the  cruel  instruments  leapt  as  though  in  fright, 
at  the  same  time  exclaiming  : 

‘  ‘  I  forbid  this  operation !  ’  ’ 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


113 

*  *  By  wliat  right  ?  ’  ’  demanded  Tefort  with 
a  suppressed  scorn  that  was  growing  dan¬ 
gerous. 

‘  ‘  By  the  right  religion  confers  upon  all  her 
servants  to  save  unbaptized  babes  from  hell! 
By  my  sacred  right  as  a  father  of  our  Holy 
Church !  ’  ’ 

“  Hypocrite!  ”  stormed  the  surgeon;  “  con¬ 
fess  the  truth!  You  dare  to  interfere  with  the 
duty  of  a  doctor  only  as  the  father  of  this 
child !  ’  ’ 

Ambrose  recoiled,  thunderstruck. 

The  silent  witnesses  of  the  scene,  started,  and 
fixed  their  eyes  upon  the  priest  with  riveted 
intentness. 

The  extremity  of  the  situation  quickened 
every  faculty  of  the  priest’s  mind.  He  be¬ 
came  strangely  cold  and  clairvoyant,  without 
any  loss  of  that  quivering  intensity  which  de¬ 
noted  the  infinite  depths  of  his  resolve.  His 
brain  was  flooded  with  illumination.  With  in- 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


1 14 

conceivable  rapidity,  he  divined  the  suspicion 
of  the  doctor  regarding  himself,  and  in  his 
desperation  determined  to  pursue  the  most  au¬ 
dacious  course.  Suddenly  advancing  on  the 
doctor  with  folded  arms,  he  said,  in  a  tone  as 
tense  as  steel:  “well  then,  as  this  infant’s 
father,  I  command  you  to  save  its  life  !  ’  ’ 
Eefort’s  muscles  grew  rigid  with  rage.  Ex¬ 
tending  his  arm  to  clear  a  passage  to  his 
patient,  he  struck  Ambrose  brutally  upon  the 
side,  thundering:  “the  law  accords  no  par¬ 
ent’s  right  to  any  apostate  priest !  ’’ 

In  a  flash  the  physician  was  felled  to  the 
floor,  while  the  outraged  priest  with  blazing 
eyes,  towered  above  him. 

The  meekness  of  the  monk  had  fled.  The 
blood  of  his  sire  boiled  with  a  soldier’s  fury  in 
the  veins  of  the  long-suffering  saint. 

A  soul  was  at  stake  ! 

All  the  powers  of  Hell  could  not  daunt  him 
now  ! 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


115 

Lefort  sprang  to  his  feet  and  flew  like  a 
maddened  mastiff  at  the  pastor’s  throat. 

A  doctor’s  natural  rights  had  been  invaded. 
The  valor  of  science  matched  that  of  super¬ 
stition. 

The  fight  of  the  fanatics  began. 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


1 16 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE  SAINT  BECOMES  AN  ASSASSIN. 

As  Lefort  attacked  Bonnard  he  was  stag¬ 
gered  by  a  fearful  blow  upon  the  shoulder. 

But  for  the  presence  of  mind  and  power  of 
the  priest,  the  doctor  might  have  received  dan¬ 
gerous,  if  not  fatal  wonnds. 

The  hound,  perplexed  by  the  unusual  pro¬ 
ceedings  about  him,  had  lain  in  sullen  silence 
beneath  the  bed.  Roused  by  the  sudden  strug¬ 
gle  between  the  men,  he  leapt  to  the  assistance 
of  the  one  with  whom  his  brief  association  had 
established  a  tie,  and  sprang  fiercely  upon 
Eefort. 

With  almost  instant  speed,  the  left  hand 
of  the  priest  held  the  physician  at  arm’s 
length,  while  his  right  caught  the  dog  by 


FATHER  AMBROSE.  117 

the  collar  and  pulled  him  back  upon  his 
own  breast,  just  in  time  to  save  the  throat 
of  his  old  friend  from  the  fangs  of  the  fero¬ 
cious  brute. 

The  witnesses  of  this  scene  stood  paralyzed 
with  amazement. 

The  awful  creed  of  the  ascetic,  goading  his 
noble  heart  into  a  frantic  fear  for  the  safety  of 
the  infant’s  soul,  set  free  the  subtlest  forces  of 
his  nervous  centres  and  gave  him  the  tendons 
of  a  Titan. 

Astonishment  at  the  preternatural  strength 
of  the  priest  checked  even  the  rage  of  the 
doctor.  The  absolute  sincerity  of  the  fanatic 
bestowed  a  dignity  and  grandeur  upon  his  su¬ 
perstition  which  might  well  give  science  pause. 

An  unselfish  enthusiast  is  the  nearest  kin  of 
God. 

As  he  stood  gripping  man  and  beast  with 
hands  of  adamant,  his  eyes  kindled  with  un¬ 
earthly  light,  Ambrose  Bonnard  looked  a  son 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


118 

of  God  indeed.  Awe  overwhelmed  every  other 
sentiment  in  those  who  witnessed  his  marvel¬ 
lous  mien.  The  religionist  was  so  possessed 
by  one  thought,  so  animated  by  one  idea,  that 
he  was  heedless  of  all  else.  The  purpose  which 
had  prompted  his  every  act,  grew  deeper  as 
his  trials  increased.  The  rigidity  of  a  daunt¬ 
less  determination  pervaded  his  whole  form, 
and  when  at  last  he  broke  the  spell  of  silence, 
the  fathomless  intensity  of  his  resolve,  revealed 
by  his  voice,  sent  a  chill  through  every  heart. 
Still  holding  doctor  and  dog  in  fingers  firm  as 
flint,  he  said  :  “  my  will  is  God’s  will !  You 
— or  I — shall  instantly  deliver  this  child  !  ’  ’ 

The  same  suspicion  .simultaneously  thrilled 
each  listener. 

The  priest  was  certainly  insane.  The  idea  of 
the  desperate  extremities  to  which  his  raving 
might  arouse  the  fanatic,  awakened  the  wildest 
imaginations  in  them  all.  None  dared  move 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


119 


for  fear  of  consequences  impossible  to  foresee. 
Now  all  was  explained  that  had  .so  puzzled  and 
misled  the  physician. 

Realizing  the  uselessness  of  a  struggle  with 
a  maniac,  the  doctor  mastered  his  indignation, 
and  asked,  soothingly  :  “  what  do  you  mean 
my  good  friend?” 

“  I  mean,”  replied  the  priest,  releasing  his 
prisoners,  stepping  quickly  to  the  table  and 
seizing  the  sharpest  tool  he  saw,  ‘  ‘  that  you 
must  do  as  I  dictate,  or  I  will  use  the  knife  ;  I 
will  free  the  child  !  ’  ’ 

The  hound,  cowed  by  the  priest’s  gaze, 
slunk  once  more  beneath  the  bed. 

Clearly  the  madman  would  hesitate  at  noth¬ 
ing. 

The  thought  of  the  mutilation  of  his  patient 
by  the  unprofessional  hand  of  the  priest,  was 
revolting  to  Lefort.  Unable  to  restrain  his  ab- 
horance,  he  exclaimed,  appealingly  : 

‘  ‘  Would  you  assassinate  a  mother  ?  ’  * 


120 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


“  Yes — if  necessary  to  save  a  soul !  ” 

The  questions  were  reversed.  It  was  the  sur¬ 
geon’s  turn  to  sue. 

‘  ‘  But  my  dear  father,  you  forget  that  in 
these  cases,  man  holds  the  parent  the  more 
precious.  ’  ’ 

With  a  fervidness  almost  furious  the  zealot 
declared  :  “I  forget  everything  except  that 
God  claims  that  child  ;  that  eternal  existence 
outranks  the  temporal ;  that  the  fate  of  a  soul 
is  more  vital  than  that  of  a  body  ;  that  the 
earth  life  of  the  christened  mother  is  the  price 
of  a  heavenly  life  to  her  unchristened  babe  !  ’  * 
“What’s  this?”  cried  L,efort  ;  “you  fear 
that  God  may  doom  the  sinless  unborn  ?  ’  ’ 

‘  ‘  None  can  escape  the  deadly  sin  of  Adam 
but  those  dedicated  to  God  by  baptism  in  the 
name  of  His  only  Son  !  ’  ’ 

This  was  proclaimed  with  an  imperious  posi¬ 
tiveness  that  stung  the  ardent  radical  out  of 
reason.  With  the  rashness  of  rage  he  burst 
into  a  torrent  of  intemperate  speech. 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


1 2 1 


“To  hell  with  your  creed  !  I’m  a  brute, 
but  better  than  it  !  I  save  more  gladly  than  it, 
and  no  thought  of  such  heartless  tyranny  shall 
balk  my  duty  now  !  I  will  rescue  this  fair 
young  mother,  and  chance  the  fate  of  her  child 
with  the  priestless  power  that  rules  the  stars  !  ’  ’ 

‘  ‘  Infidel  !  I  forbid  you  to  chance  the  fate 
of  a  soul !  ’  ’ 

‘  ‘  I  defy  your  forbiddance  !  At  the  bed  of 
birth  the  surgeon  is  a  sovereign  !  The  heart 
of  man  decrees  it,  and  the  law  of  the  land  de¬ 
clares  it !  ’  ’ 

*  ‘  At  the  bed  of  death — God — and  his  priest 
— are  supreme  ! — By  the  rights  of  my  sacred 
office,  I  claim  a  soul  for  Christ !  ’’ 

By  the  rights  of  my  lawful  office,  I  claim  a 
mother  for  men  !  ’  ’ 

The  life-saver,  and  the  soul-saver,  had  un¬ 
consciously  become  Paladins  in  that  hostility 
which  endures  forever  between  a  faith  born  of 


122 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


fear  for  God,  and  that  begotten  of  love  for  man. 
Both  were  bigots,  but  well  matched.  Their 
breasts  held  hearts  of  equal  zeal ;  equal  in 
vigor  of  conviction,  in  depth  of  determination, 
in  scorn  of  consequences,  in  unquenchable 
courage.  Both  were  heroes  of  the  noblest 
mould.  One  mystic — one  material ;  one  dedi¬ 
cated  to  the  ideal,  the  other  devoted  to  the 
real ;  ready  to  destroy  one  another  in  order  to 
serve  the  Humanity  which  both  adored.  There 
in  that  half -lighted  room,  they  loomed  like  two 
Colossii,  face  to  face,  regardless  of  results, 
each  determined  to  enforce  the  decree  of  his 
own  creed. 

The  sense  of  impending  disaster  weighed  so 
heavily  upon  the  spectators  of  this  struggle 
that  they  stood  rooted  with  horror,  their  facul¬ 
ties  refusing  to  respond  to  the  demands  of  the 
moment. 

The  physician  knew  the  desperate  nature  of 
religious  mania  and  realized  that  to  save  this 
mother  he  must  imperil  his  own  life, 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


123 


How  defend  himself  without  killing  the 
priest  ?  The  madman  was  armed  with  a  weapon 
sharpened  in  mercy  to  the  patient,  but  all  the 
more  dangerous  in  the  hands  of  rabid  reckless¬ 
ness. 

The  tension  of  the  instant  was  torture.  Each 
felt  the  inflexible  force  of  the  other’s  will. 
Each  eyed  the  other  with  the  proud  energy  of 
an  angry  eagle. 

The  tlieist  spoke  first,  asking  hoarsely  : 
‘  ‘  do  you  refuse  to  save  the  child  ?  ’  * 

“  I  do,”  replied  the  atheist,  emphatically. 

The  fanatic  tightened  his  hold  on  the  knife, 
advancing  as  he  muttered  : 

“  The  doctor  fails  !  The  priest  must  suf¬ 
fice  !  ’  ’ 

The  surgeon  interposed. 

“  My  friend,”  he  said,  in  iron  tones,  “  this 
young  woman  is  my  charge.  You  shall  go  no 
further.  ’  ’ 

“So!  You  defy  the  will  of  heaven?” 


124 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


cried  the  sacrificant,  and  rushing  with  uplifted 
knife  at  the  scoffer  of  sacraments,  he  shouted 
in  frantic  exultation  :  ‘‘then  in  Christ’s  name  ! 
— for  a  soul’s  sake  !  ’  ’ 

Superstition  had  converted  the  saint  into  an 
assassin.  His  hand  fell  with  lightening  veloc¬ 
ity,  straight  for  the  doctor’s  heart. 

The  next  instant  Ambrose  was  gasping  for 
breath.  In  another  moment  he  lay  uncon¬ 
scious  upon  the  floor. 

The  struggle  had  ended,  but  neither  science, 
nor  superstition  had  triumphed.  Both  were 
destined  to  be  crushingly  rebuked  by  Nature, 
which  protesting  nothing  evolves  all,  and  ulti¬ 
mately  achieves  on  earth  a  victory  for  that 
Eternal  Law  of  Eove — whose  rule  infallibly 
secures  an  Infinite  Liberty  of  Life. 


End  of  Book  I. 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


125 


BOOK  II. 

THE  TRIUMPH. 

CHAPTER  I. 

SUB  SIUENTIO. 

“  He’s  quiet  now.  Roll  up  the  end  of  the 
rug.  Here,  under  his  head.  So.  Eeave  the 
cloth  across  his  chin.” 

Thus  the  surgeon  directed  his  sister,  as  he 
and  Kemaitre  bent  over  the  prostrate  form  of 
the  priest. 

Just  before  Bonnard  attacked  Kefort,  the 
latter  had  discovered  a  possible  escape  from 

the  impending  catastrophe.  Something  he  saw 
upon  the  table  behind  the  insane  ascetic,  might 


126 


father  Ambrose. 


save  them  both  if  reached  in  time*  Holding  the 
fanatic  with  his  eye,  he  succeeded,  by  a  fur¬ 
tive  movement  of  his  finger,  in  directing  the 
attention  of  his  semi-paralyzed  apprentice  to 
the  object  from  which  he  hoped  so  much. 
Fortunately  the  student  understood,  and,  with 
stealthy  quietness  crept,  unseen  by  Ambrose, 
close  to  the  stand  of  instruments  at  his  back. 

A  few  seconds  later  the  priest  made  his  mad 
lunge  at  the  doctor’s  heart. 

The  physician  swiftly  dodged  the  deadly 
blow,  and,  with  the  inordinate  strength  of  a 
desperate  fear,  caught  the  curate  about  the 
neck,  seizing  his  weapon  hand  and  drawing  it 
down  upon  his  hip.  At  the  same  instant 
Temaitre  grasped  the  fighting  fanatic  upon  the 
other  side  clapping  a  chloroformed  cloth  upon 
his  mouth.  The  struggle  at  first  was  fearful ; 
the  drug,  alone,  enabling  the  two  strong  men, 
with  the  energetic  assistance  of  Amelie,  to  con¬ 
quer  the  convulsed  enthusiast. 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


127 


In  the  turmoil  Amelie’ s  dress  was  torn  from 
her  breast,  and  her  hair  shaken  about  her 
shoulders.  In  turning  aside  to  replace  her  dis¬ 
hevelled  attire  she  was  shocked  at  the  change 
in  the  appearance  of  the  patient.  With  a  cry 
of  dismay  she  flew  to  her  side,  screaming  ; 
“  Earnest !  Earnest !  be  quick  !  she’s  dying  ! 

Eefort  and  his  assistant  rushed  to  the  bed. 
The  physician,  feeling  the  fast  stiffening  form, 
shouted  to  his  sister  ;  ‘  ‘  hurry  with  the  hyper- 
dermic  !  ’  ’  then  to  Eemaitre  ;  ‘  ‘  the  nitrate  of 
amyl !  quick  !  ’  ’ 

While  Amelie  injected  the  brandy,  her 
brother  held  the  amyl  to  the  nostrils  of  the 
sinking  sufferer,  Amelie  in  her  haste,  punc¬ 
tured  the  flesh  of  the  young  girl  very  deeply 
and  was  surprised  that  so  severe  a  cut  brought 
no  blood. 

“  Earnest,  see  !  ”  she  cried,  “  what  can  this 
mean  ?  ’  ’ 

The  physician,  snatching  the  syringe  from 


128 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


his  sister’s  hand,  made  a  lacerating  gash  in  the 
patient’s  arm.  The  broken  skin  curled  to¬ 
gether  like  the  leaf  of  a  sensitive  plant,  but 
the  wound  was  bloodless.  Tefort,  observing 
this,  said,  in  worried  tones  :  “it  may  be  only 
the  cutaneous  ischaemia  which  so  often  attends 
hystero-cateleptic  attacks,  but  I  fear  it’s  some¬ 
thing  worse.” 

Noticing  that  the  amyl  produced  no  effect 
upon  the  mucus  membrane  of  the  nose,  he 
placed  his  ear  to  the  woman’s  body.  Pres¬ 
ently  he  lifted  his  head,  and  growled:  “the 
heart  is  inaudible.  Respiration  has  ceased. 
The  reflexes  are  absent.  The  amyl  is  useless 
and  even  the  knee  jerk  fails.  We  must  know 
the  worst  at  once.  Quick  !  Jacques,  the  bat¬ 
tery  !  ” 

In  less  than  a  minute  they  applied  a  strong 
faradic  current  with  metallic  electrodes  to  the 
patient’s  head.  Not  a  sign  of  life  was  left. 
Tefort  withdrew  the  poles  of  the  battery,  say¬ 
ing  :  “she’s dead!” 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


X29 


* *  And  the  child  ?  ’  *  questioned  Amelie. 

“  Has  but  one  chance  of  life.” 

Hastening  to  the  table  with  the  battery,  the 
surgeon  commanded:  “  Jacques!  put  the 
diaphram  in  place.  We  must  make  the  caesar¬ 
ian  cut. 

^  *J> 

^  ^  ^  ^  ^ 

While  selecting  the  knives  for  his  dangerous 
work  the  surgeon’s  indignation  at  the  loss  of 
the  mother,  burst  forth  in  bitter  speech  :  ‘  ‘  law 
and  humanity  are  baffled  !  nature  sides  with 
superstition;  ” 

To  these  words  a  whispered  reply  startled 
the  ears  of  each. 

“  Nature  sides  not  and  slights  not.” 

Each  turned  and  looked  at  the  other.  There 
was  awe  on  every  face. 

‘  ‘  Did  you  hear  that  ?  ’  ’  asked  Amelie  ner¬ 
vously. 

'  ‘  Hear  what  ?  ’  ’  requestioned  her  doubting 
brother. 


130 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


“The  whisper ? ” 

“I  heard  it!”  said  Eemaitre,  with  bated 
breath. 

They  instinctively  looked  at  the  priest.  He 
remained  unmoved  upon  the  floor. 

“Oh!  Earnest  I’m  frightened!”  mur¬ 
mured  Amelie,  shrinking  close  to  her  brother’s 
side. 

Again  that  mystic  whisper  startled  their  long 
tried  nerves. 

“  Fear  ?ioty  the  triumph  of  love  is  at  hand.” 

Chilled  by  a  common  suspicion  they  glanced 
at  the  form  in  the  bed.  As  their  eyes  fell 
upon  its  peaceful  face  the  lights  rose  with  a 
lurid  glare,  and  then  in  a  flash  went  out. 

Clarisse  shrieked  and  fled  from  the  room. 

Amelie  shivered  and  sank  upon  her  knees. 

Eemaitre  clung  to  a  post  of  the  bed,  trem¬ 
bling,  and  unmanned.  Even  the  heart  of  the 
sturdy  Eefort  quivered  with  nervous  dread. 
All  at  once,  just  over  the  bed,  in  the  midst  of 
the  darkness,  appeared  a  point  of  violet  light. 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


131 

Each  eye  was  instantly  fixed  and  fastened 
by  some  resistless  fascination,  upon  the  dazz¬ 
ling,  motionless  mote.  Their  minds  were  dazed 
by  the  strain  of  their  intentness.  Spiral  vor¬ 
tices  of  luminous  ether  seemed  to  form  within 
their  brains,  converging  in  cone-like  whirls, 
upon  that  common,  focal  point. 

Slowly,  calmly,  irresistibly,  that  focus  sucketf 
into  its  endless  centre  the  whole  of  their  con¬ 
sciousness. 

The  last  they  ever  remembered  was  the 
maze  of  those  luminous  whirls. 


132 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  AWAKENING. 

Earnest  Eefort  was  the  first  to  emerge 
from  the  occult  condition  into  which  they  had 
all  been  so  subtly  inducted,  before  any  of  them 
could  realize  into  what  vast  void  they  were 
drifting.  When  he  returned  to  consciousness, 
he  found  himself  seated  at  a  table  in  the  centre 
of  the  room  with  a  paper  in  his  hand,  which 
was  strongly  lighted  by  the  lamp  which  stood 
near  his  shoulder  on  the  stand.  Abrupt  as  the 
recurrence  of  cognition  was,  it  appeared  per¬ 
fectly  natural  for  him  to  find  himself  in  this 
position. 

His  primary  mental  state  as  he  regained  his 
physical  sense,  was  almost  infantile  in  its 
docile  and  unquestioning  acceptance  of  the  un- 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


*33 


accountable  conditions  about  him.  Nothing 
in  the  entire  succession  of  exotic  events,  was 
more  extraordinary  than  his  first  waking  mood. 
While  his  strong  mind  was  exceptionally  clear 
his  powerful  will  remained  in  singular  abey¬ 
ance.  With  unhesitating  rapidity  he  per¬ 
ceived  all  that  he  was  to  do,  and  just  how  it 
should  be  done,  but  it  never  for  an  instant  oc¬ 
curred  to  him  to  discuss  the  why  of,  or  refuse 
obedience  to  the  influence  of  the  instant. 

Sight  preceded  the  other  senses  in  the  re¬ 
opening  of  terrestial  cognizance.  He  saw  be¬ 
fore  all  else  these  words,  written  in  a  large 
clear  hand  upon  the  paper  he  was  holding. 

“Read.  Obey ,  and  you  will  understand." 

Without  a  particle  of  excitement  he  opened 
the  manuscript  and  read  the  following  : 


To  one  most  beloved — greeting  and  congratula¬ 
tions  :  From  grief  that  kills,  is  bom  joy  that 
lives  forever.  The  most  precious  hour  that  has 


134 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


thus  far  unfolded  in  this  most  wondrous  of  earthly 
ages,  is  now. 

One  nears  birth  who  is  destined  to  tear  the 
scales  from  the  fear-fettered  eyes  of  superstition, 
and  to  inspire  a  deeper  faith,  a  more  zealous 
energy,  and  a  purer  life,  for  all  time  to  come. 

Let  your  hearts  swell  with  grateful  pride!  for 
to  you  is  given  the  precious  privilege  of  watching 
over  and  guarding  the  physical  welfare  of  the 
New  Word. 

The  story  of  these  marvelous  moments  shall  be 
recorded  that  you  may  the  more  surely  believe  in 
the  deathless  glory  to  come. 

Whilst  you  and  Jacques  are  busy,  the  hand  of 
Amelie  writes  these  lines. 

Know  then  these  fundamental  facts  :  The  child 
born  this  night  is  the  fruit  of  a  maiden ’s  virgin 
desire,  and  of  a  man ’s  virgin  love. 

In  the  female,  passion  most  potent  sprang  with 
frank  and  joyous  spontaniety  from  affection  most 
profound. 

In  the  male,  affection,  stronger  than  his  own  re¬ 
bellious  will,  grew  out  of  passion  the  most  imper¬ 
ious  and  rude. 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


135 


In  the  mother,  centuries  of  loving  service  have 
culminated  in  a  hypersensitive  unselfishness. 

In  the  father,  centuries  of  inherited  power,  ages 
of  domination  over  others,  have  evolved  the  most 
complete,  consistent,  uncompromising  egoism. 


The  race  conditions  for  the  advent  of  an  illum¬ 
inating  life,  have  been  unique.  The  extremity 
of  the  oppositions  have  been  infinite.  The  unity 
of  these  oppositions  was  wrought  from  the  im¬ 
pulse  of  a  resistless  affection,  energized  by  the 
most  virile  passion,  and  has  evolved  an  organiza¬ 
tion  of  the  richest  resources,  as  well  as  of  the 
most  harmonic  order.  The  last  perfecting  touch 
to  this  temperament,  has  been  given  by  the  shock 
of  the  most  tragic  shame.  In  time  you  will 
understand  the  consummating  power  of  this  pene¬ 
trating  pang. 

An  archangelic  essence  has  been  called  to  give 
the  aid  of  his  rare  nature  to  the  completion  of  this 
vital  work.  This  essence  has  taken  the  form  of 
the  fanatic,  whose  zeal  for  the  eternal  life  of  an¬ 
other,  would  not  hesitate  to  sacrifice  the  now  of 
all  the  world,  or  the  forever  of  himself.  Between 
this  victim  of  sacredotal  doctrine  and  the  child- 
mother,  who  is  the  untrammeled  product  of  true 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


136 

love  and  free  thought,  there  is  a  close  psychic 
affinity,  which  renders  his  pneuma  vitalizing,  vi¬ 
vifying,  and  restorative,  to  her  stricken  cosmic 
organization. 

This  explains  the  rash  innocence  of  his  first 
impulse,  and  the  close  physical  contact  which 
you  are  about  to  renew  between  them. 

You  and  your  apprentice  are  stripping  the  un- 
concious  priest. 

Now  you  replace  him  at  her  side. 

You  have  believed  this  young  woman  dead. 
You  were  mistaken.  The  same  error  has  led 
science  to  send  thousands  who  were  in  the  final 
stage  of  carus,  to  the  horrible  death  of  the  grave. 
Decomposition  alone,  is  the  sure  sign  that  life 
may  not  return.  There  is  a  trance  whose  vice- 
like  grasp  holds  the  inmost  molecular  centres  of 
life  beyond  the  reach  of  the  most  incisive  vibra¬ 
tion  which  can  possibly  emanate  from  any  gal¬ 
vanic  battery  which  science  has  discovered.  The 
coming  one  will  give  the  world  a  unity  of  atoms, 
from  whose  substantial  interchanges  will  flow 
the  most  awful  and  most  potent  of  all  motive 
agencies.  This  discovery  will  infallibly  detect 


-  .'f  K> 


FATHER  AMBROSE.  137 

and  resurrect  the  life  substance  of  the  natural 
world  in  all  tissues,  whose  organic  integrity  is 
not  absolutely  lost.  The  anima,  which  this  in¬ 
vention  will  soon  enable  science  to  command,  is 
working  at  this  instant  and  radiating  from  the 
harmonial  communion  of  atom  in  the  bodies  of 
Ambrose  and  his  celestial  comrade  Constance, 
who  lies  at  his  side. 

Ten  minutes  have  elapsed  ! 

The  first  rythms  of  the  real,  are  now  reaching 
and  reviving  the  activity  of  the  intra-astral  ethers, 
in  the  interstitial,  neural  recesses  of  the  medulla. 

The  impact  of  the  primitive  impulse  is  now  ex¬ 
quisitely  adjusted  to  the  vital  centres  of  her  or¬ 
ganization. 

The  involution  of  the  death  tendency  is  re¬ 
versed. 

The  evolution  of  the  life  form  re-begins. 

The  procession  of  the  microcosmic  vortices,  in 
the  cerebral  tissues,  once  more  proceeds. 

Seventec?i  minutes  have  passed  ! 

The  tremors  commence. 

The  life  throe  convulses. 

The  spasm  is  complete. 


133 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


Again  she  breathes. 

You  do  your  work  splendidly.  All  the  learn¬ 
ing  and  skill  stored  in  the  gray  molecules  of  your 
brain  are  of  immense  service  to  us  now — you  have 
accomplished  a  superb  reversion — you  may  rest 
and  wait — nature  will  work  her  own  way,  with¬ 
out  danger  to  mother  or  child. 


In  less  than  thirty  fleet  minutes  the  beginning 
of  the  end  is  at  hand. 

The  celestial  spheres  are  pulsating  with  super¬ 
nal  songs. 

Again  the  absolute  completes  a  new  aspiration 
in  the  relative. 

Let  all  the  world-forsaken,  love-lost,  lie-locked, 
of  the  earth,  rejoice  with  boundless  joy  ! 

Let  torrents  of  blessed  tears  wash  away,  for¬ 
ever,  all  the  foulness  and  falseness  of  the  unlov¬ 
ing  life ! 

The  eternal  mother  is  with  you  ! 

The  redeeming  daughter  comes  !  ” 

5jC  5fC  5ft  Jfc  5j«  S$C 

Here  the  first  communication,  which  was 
evidently  written  by  the  reader’s  sister,  ended. 

A  coo  of  delight  reached  the  doctor’s  ears. 


FATHER  AMBROSE, 


139 


He  looked  up. 

Amelie  stood  before  him,  holding  a  naked 
female  infant,  on  which  she  fixed  eyes  as 
glassy  and  mechanical  as  those  of  some  mon¬ 
strous  manakin. 


140 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


CHAPTER  III. 

STEVNA. 

The  new-born’s  eyes  were  wide  open,  and 
gazed  with  a  sort  of  happy  wonder,  into  the 
dimly  lighted  spaces  before  her.  The  ex¬ 
quisite  little  lips  were  half  parted  by  a  smile, 
and  beneath  her  rosy  wee  fists,  which  were 
held  close  upon  her  breast,  Eefort  saw  with 
astonishment,  another  manuscript  directed  to 
himself. 

The  sound  of  the  child’s  voice  roused  his 
aural  sense,  and  with  its  reopening,  the  appre¬ 
hension  of  the  amazing  character  of  this 
whole  experience  rapidly  increased. 

Anxiety  now  attended  his  observation  of  his 
sister’s  strange  expression,  and  the  surprise  of 
the  child’s  sudden  appearance  brought  him  a 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


141 

partial  recognition  of  the  curious  mental  con¬ 
dition  in  which  he,  himself,  still  remained. 

A  vague  uneasiness  stole  through  him. 

The  unchanged  mechanical  attention  of 
Amelie  to  the  child,  worried  him.  He  turned 
to  her  for  explanation  and  called  her  by  her 
name.  She  remained  unmoved,  but  the  sound 
of  his  own  voice  suddenly  restored  his  facul¬ 
ties  to  their  normal  activity. 

With  a  long  drawn  sigh  he  awoke  to  a  full 
consciousness  of  the  extraordinary  state  of  af¬ 
fairs  about  him.  He  felt  as  though  he  had 
just  issued  from  the  despotic  delusion  of  some 
absurd  dream.  The  unusual  nature  of  the 
circumstances  in  which  he  found  himself  be¬ 
came  completely  apparent,  and  what  a  moment 
before  appeared  perfectly  natural,  became  un¬ 
natural,  to  a  degree  that  was  positively  pain¬ 
ful.  So  long  as  he  was  to  any  extent  an  actor 
in  this  preternatural  play  of  incidents,  he  re¬ 
mained  unperceptive  of  their  abnormality  ;  but 


142 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


his  call  to  Amelie  had  separated  him  from  all 
personal  association  with  the  peculiar  state  of 
the  others,  and  changed  the  nature  of  his  re¬ 
lation  to  his  surroundings  from  that  of  partici¬ 
pant,  to  that  of  spectator.  The  moment  this 
reversal  was  effected,  all  the  old  time  energy 
of  mind  and  positiveness  of  will  returned  to 
him.  He  began  to  regard  his  environment 
with  keen  and  inquisitive  glances. 

What  he  saw  shocked  his  understanding, 
and  for  a  time  led  him  to  believe  that  he  was 
the  victim  of  a  visionary  condition,  which  could 
only  have  been  produced  by  the  use  of  some 
strong  drug.  With  a  supreme  effort  of  his 
will  he  sought  to  shake  himself  free  from  the 
fetters  of  this  phantasm,  but  the  more  violent 
his  effort  to  escape  its  sway,  the  more  absolute 
became  the  rule  of  its  reality,  till  at  last,  his 
reason  was  forced  to  accept  what  his  senses  so 
incessantly  reaffirmed,  and  he  was  obliged  to 
acknowledge  that  he  stood  in  the  presence  of 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


143 


events  whose  actuality  wras  as  positive,  as  their 
character  was  unique. 

Reiterated  utterance  of  Amelie’sname  failed 
to  release  her  from  the  clutches  of  the  unac¬ 
countable  diathesis  into  which  she  had  fallen. 

He  looked  for  Temaitre,  hoping  to  secure 
from  him  aid,  or  some  solution  of  these  tor¬ 
menting  absurdities. 

As  he  turned  toward  the  bed  the  sight  that 
met  his  eye  was  bewildering. 

The  young  woman  whom  he  had  pronounced 
dead,  lay  there,  alive,  breathing,  and  with  the 
flush  of  fever  upon  her  face.  Close  to  her 
bare  body  reposed,  what  appeared  to  be  the 
naked  corpse  of  the  priest.  The  clothes  were 
frankly  thrown  from  both  forms,  and  Jacques, 
with  great  alertness,  was  bathing  the  young 
mother  with  alcohol,  the  fumes  of  which 
Tefort  now  perceived  were  filling  the  room. 

Hurrying  to  the  side  of  his  apprentice  he 
cried : 


144 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


‘  ‘  Jacques  !  what  does  this  mean  ?  ’  * 

Lemaitre  proved  as  irresponsive  as  Amelie, 
and  continued  his  occupation  without  the 
slightest  attention  to  the  surgeon’s  energetic 
appeals. 

The  distracted  man  became  convinced  that 
his  own  brains  were  imposing  upon  him.  He 
resolved  to  end,  instantly,  the  preposterous  il¬ 
lusions  that  mocked  his  common  sense.  He 
seized  his  hands  and  wrung  their  joints  with 
a  fierceness  that  strained  their  tendons  and 
goaded  him  into  groans  of  pain.  He  struck 
his  forehead  violently,  beside  himself  at  the 
pranks  which  his  senses  seemed  to  be  playing 
upon  his  wits.  The  more  thoroughly,  how¬ 
ever,  he  tested  the  normality  of  his  own  con¬ 
sciousness,  the  more  he  perceived  its  unim¬ 
peachable  completeness. 

Grasping  his  assistant  by  the  shoulder,  he 
exclaimed,  furiously:  “Jacques!  I  command 
you  to  reply  !  ’’  With  a  quick  movement  of 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


145 


his  arm  the  fragile  Lemaitre  flung  the  stalwart 
Lefort,  with  stunning  force,  against  the  wall. 
This  experience  capped  the  climax  of  his  as¬ 
tonishment.  To  longer  question  the  genuine¬ 
ness  of  these  incredible  facts,  was  more 
irrational,  even,  than  the  facts  themselves. 
Convinced  at  last  of  their  reality,  a  desperate 
desire  to  master  their  meaning,  supplanted  his 
rebellion  at  their  existence.  Stealing  cau¬ 
tiously  to  the  side  of  the  bed,  opposite  to  that 
where  the  student  still  labored,  he  earnestly 
watched  the  man  at  his  work.  He  saw  that 
the  whole  person  of  his  apprentice,  was  under 
the  direction  of  some  influence  entirely  dis¬ 
tinct  from  the  individuality  of  the  man  him¬ 
self.  His  body  had  become  a  mere  machine, 
which  was  played  through,  and  permeated  by 
the  intelligence  that  determined  his  actions. 
The  same  glassiness  of  stare  in  the  eyes,  and 
the  same  emotionless  mechanicality  of  motion 
characterized  Jacques  that  he  had  observed  in 


146 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


Amelie.  He  leaned  across  the  body  of  the 
priest  beneath  him,  and  looked  with  the  most 
searching  scrutiny  into  Temaitre’s  eyes. 

The  young  man  paused  in  his  work,  and 
lifted  his  eyes  as  though  impelled  to  do  so  in 
order  to  give  Tefort  an  opportunity  of  making 
the  most  searching  investigation  of  the  optical 
conditions. 

The  scientist  saw  that  the  pupils  were  di¬ 
lated  to  their  fullest  extent ;  that  the  longi¬ 
tudinal  axis  of  the  eyeballs  converged  slightly 
inward,  each  eye  tending,  in  a  minute  degree, 
to  turn  from  the  other,  like  the  eyes  of  a  man 
who  is  the  opposite  of  cross-eyed. 

Presently,  Jacques,  moved  by  a  new  impulse, 
drew  the  coverings  over  the  naked  bodies  in 
the  bed,  walked  to  the  side  of  his  superior, 
and  extended  his  arm,  wdth  a  movement  that 
invited  the  physician  to  feel  his  pulse.  A  cur¬ 
sory  examination  of  the  vascular  conditions  of 
the  man  showed  a  pulse  that  was  extremely 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


147 


slow  but  of  ordinary  strength  ;  while  respira¬ 
tion  was  scarcely  perceptible,  the  skin  being 
clammy,  and  the  temperature  strangely  low. 
Turning  from  his  pupil  to  look  after  his  sister, 
the  doctor  saw  that  she  was  still  standing  by 
the  table  with  the  infant  in  her  arms,  pre¬ 
cisely  as  he  had  left  her  a  few  minutes  before. 
Crossing  to  her,  he  noticed  that  the  cherub 
had  fallen  into  a  peaceful  sleep.  His  attention 
was  this  time  attracted,  with  more  emphasis 
than  before,  to  the  mannscript  which  lay  be¬ 
neath  the  hands  of  the  little  one.  Quickly 
disengaging  the  pages  from  the  embrace  of  the 
babe,  he  observed  that  it  was  addressed  to  him¬ 
self,  in  his  own  hand. 

Irritated  by  this  new  evidence  of  the  subor¬ 
dination  of  his  own  individuality  to  the  control 
of  some  other  will,  he  opened  the  package 
with  impatience. 

These  words  met  his  eye : 


148 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


“Do  not  rebel  at  what  you  cannot  yet  compre¬ 
hend,  for  you  will  rejoice  with  exceeding  glad¬ 
ness.  when  all  is  explained. 

Each  of  you  have  been  inducted  into  that 
subtle  Psycho-cosmic  schesis  which  we  term,  En; 
a  state  of  profound  zootic  subjection,  which  ren¬ 
ders  somatic  organisms  susceptible  to  the  potent 
empire  of  what  is  called,  in  the  terrestro-astral 
plane,  substantial  imitation  ;  a  class  of  occult  ef- 
fectuants  which  your  friend  Charcot,  who  is  at 
last,  interested  in  the  psychological  phenomena 
attending  hysterical -neuroses,  would  probably  de¬ 
scribe  as  a  species  of  automatic,  or  spontaneous 
subjective  hypnotism. 

You  will  find  in  the  manuscripts  attached  to 
this  communication,  a  full  explanation  of  the 
causes,  methods  and  consequences  of  the  exper¬ 
iences  through  which  we  have  been  passing 
to-day.  These  you  will  read  at  your  leisure,  after 
this  night’s  work  is  complete,  and  you  have  had 
sufficient  rest  from  the  excitements  you  have  un¬ 
dergone  to  restore  your  mental  poise. 

The  resuscitation  of  the  mother,  has  been  ef¬ 
fected  through  the  media  supplied  by  the  excep¬ 
tional  organization  of  Father  Ambrose.  To  ac¬ 
complish  our  purpose  with  the  greatest  speed  and 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


149 


most  certain  success,  it  has  been  necessary  to  es¬ 
tablish  a  close  contact  between  their  bodies. 

To  us,  who  have  escaped  the  scortatory  imagin¬ 
ings  of  terrestrial  consciousness,  this  contact  is 
supremely  pure  and  beneficient.  Your  eyes  would 
not  be  permitted  to  witness  it,  unless  we  knew 
that  to  your  clean  manhood  it  would  appear 
equally  free  from  guile. 

Before  entirely  completing  our  work,  we  have 
restored  your  sensorial  system  to  its  accustomed 
relation  to  your  own  entity,  in  order  that  you 
might  make,  for  the  benefit  of  science  and  the 
confirmation  of  the  life  to  come,  the  most  exact 
pathological  examination  of  each  of  the  individ¬ 
uals  now  under  occult  influence. 

We  earnestly  desire  that  you  should  do  this 
with  the  utmost  thoroughness,  and  as  exhaus¬ 
tively  as  your  present  knowledge  of  nature  per¬ 
mits.  The  more  merciless  your  scrutiny  the  more 
clear  the  lack  of  all  physiological  disturbance  will 
become  ;  and,  thus,  the  more  positive  the  evidence 
that  they  are  in  no  respect  diseased  or  de- natural¬ 
ized.  Proof  of  this  may  help  to  convince  you  that 
the  puzzling  phenomena,  attending  these  indes¬ 
cribable  hours,  however  unusual,  are  not  in  the 
least  unnatural.  Before  you  can  properly  com- 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


150 

mence  the  investigations  requested,  it  will  be 
necessary  for  you  to  obey  the  following  directions  : 

You  will  first  take  Amelie  by  the  hand  and  lead 
her  to  the  side  of  the  priest.  You  will  place 
Jacques  next  to  her.  You  will  put  Amelie ’s  left 
hand  into  Lemaitre’s  right.  You  will  join  his 
left  hand  to  the  right  hand  of  the  priest.  You 
will  then  take  the  left  hand  of  the  priest  in  your 
right  and  hold  Amelie ’s  right  hand  with  your  left. 

When  you  have  accomplished  these  conjunc¬ 
tions,  we  will  transmit  to  you,  through  Ambrose, 
the  authority  which  we  now  possess  over  the 
organicrmechanisms  of  your  sister  and  apprentice. 
You  will  know  when  the  transmission  is  com¬ 
plete  by  a  sharp  pain  which  will  shoot  through 
your  right  shoulder.  From  that  time  you  will 
find  each  subject  entirely  surrendered  to  your 
control. 

After  obtaining  this  power  you  will  perceive 
that  their  cerebral,  visceral,  and  vascular  systems, 
will  be  as  responsive  to  any  suggestion  you  may 
make  to  them,  through  the  organs  of  sense,  as  the 
stops  of  a  musical  instrument  to  the  touch  of  the 
most  expert  musician. 

By  means  of  this  command  you  will  discover 
a  very  large  and  unsuspected  number  of  faculties, 
which  are  latent  in  the  human  organism ;  and 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


*5* 

while  experimenting,  you  will  be  astounded  at 
the  extravagant  amount  of  force  which  the  mole¬ 
cular  activity  of  the  body  can  discharge,  with  a 
very  long  continued  waste,  while  under  the  do¬ 
minion  of  your  submonitions. 

By  making  minute  notes  of  the  results  of  your 
present  rare  experiences,  you  will  be  enabled, 
eventually,  to  arrive  at  developments  of  the 
greatest  consequence  to  science  and  philosophy. 

When  your  investigations  are  completed,  you 
will  conduct  Ainelie  to  a  room  across  the  hall  and 
release  her  from  your  influence  by  simply  com¬ 
manding  her  to  pass  into  a  normal  sleep.  There¬ 
upon  she  will  retire  and  awaken,  refreshed  and 
well,  toward  noon  to-morrow. 

You  will  lead  hemaitre  to  the  lounge  in  the 
boudoir  below,  and  release  him  in  the  same  man¬ 
ner  as  that  in  which  you  freed  Amelie. 

When  3rou  have  ended  j’our  occult  mastery  of 
these  two,  you  will  return  and  take  charge  of  the 
young  mother  who  is  now  undergoing  a  healing 
treatment  from  us  through  father  Ambrose. 

You  will  find  the  priest  as  thoroughly  at  your 
disposal  as  the  others  will  have  become,  when 
you  have  followed  the  directions  herein  given, 
and  your  experiments  with  him  will  result  in 


*5* 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


revelations  of  a  character  so  radical  as  to  shock 
even  your  emancipated  mind. 

After  bathing  the  patient  with  the  alcohol  and 
water  which  Jacques  has  been  using,  you  will  ap¬ 
ply  the  compresses  and  bandages  you  are  accus¬ 
tomed  to  in  similar  cases,  and  then  bid  the  priest, 
who  will  be  in  your  hypnotic  grasp,  to  rise  and 
dress  himself.  While  dressing  you  will  notice 
that  he  will  carefully  place  at  one  side  an  open 
letter,  and  a  sealed  package.  When  you  have 
completed  your  experiments  with  the  priest  you 
will  read  the  letter.  However  distasteful  it  may 
be  to  you  to  learn  the  secrets  of  a  stranger’s  life, 
you  will  accede  to  this  request,  because  the  inter¬ 
ests  of  this  sufferer  demand  that  you  shall  know 
everything  without  ever  permitting  her  to  divine 
that  you  know  anything.  The  sealed  package 
you  will  conceal  from  everyone  until  the  mental 
condition  of  your  charge  justifies  her  knowledge, 
and  possession,  of  the  secrets  it  contains.  Hav¬ 
ing  read  the  letter,  you  will  again  direct  your  at¬ 
tention  to  Ambrose  and  for  the  next  twenty-four 
hours  keep  him  at  the  side  of  the  sufferer.  You 
will  place  him  in  an  easy  chair,  close  to  the  bed, 
and  maintain  your  command  of  his  curative  En, 
until  the  dangerous  crisis  in  the  neurine  condi¬ 
tion  of  the  mother,  which  your  skill  as  a  physi- 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


153 


cian  will  enable  you  to  detect,  has  passed,  and 
the  processes  of  the  multipolar  cells  have  evi¬ 
dently  recovered  from  their  present  confusion. 

On  seeking,  you  will  find  that  the  servant  has 
fallen  asleep  from  sheer  fatigue,  in  the  hall  below. 
Wake  her,  soothe  her  fears,  and  by  sagacious 
questioning,  learn  all  you  can  from  her  concern¬ 
ing  her  mistress. 

To-morrow,  you  can  make  Amelie  and  Jacques 
the  witnesses  of  the  entire  subjection  of  father 
Ambrose  to  your  directions,  as  a  still  further  con¬ 
firmation  of  the  preternatural  facts  concerned  with 
this  unparalleled  occasion. 

These  general  directions  are  sufficient.  From 
the  time  our  indications  of  your  wisest  course 
have  been  followed  your  own  intelligence  will 
dictate  everything  that  is  requisite  to  restore  the 
health  and  strength  of  this  beloved  parent,  and 
to  preserve  that  of  her  precious  child. 

The  future  which  you  are  all  destined  to  enjoy 
together  wfill  repay  a  thousand  fold  for  the  cares 
and  anxieties  through  which  you  are  to  pass,  and 
for  your  faithful  execution  of  the  requests  we 
herein  make  to  3’ou. 

This  mother  and  little  one  are  of  unspeakable 
worth  to  the  divine  substance  of  humanity. 


154 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


They  are  thenceforth  confided  to  the  tireless 
care  of  father  Ambrose,  Amelie,  and  yourself. 

A  great  wrong  has  been  done  by  the  father  of 
this  child. 

What  that  wrong  is,  why  it  has  been  done,  and 
who  the  wronger  is,  you  will  very  shortly  dis¬ 
cover  ;  but  under  no  circumstances  should  you 
reveal  to  those  associated  with  you  in  cherishing 
this  pair,  the  identity  of  the  guilty  man. 

Two  things  you  must  carefully  avoid  In  the 
future  :  First :  saying  or  doing  anything  which 
may  assist  anyone  to  detect  the  name,  or  family, 
of  the  person  whose  desertion  has  brought  this 
noble  young  girl  so  near  death.  Second  :  you 
must  neither  say,  nor  do,  anythere  that  may  in¬ 
terfere  with  the  revelation  of  the  whole  truth, 
throxigh  the  natural  course  of  events.  Do  not 
forget  that  absolute  passivity  must  govern  your 
conduct  in  this  entire  matter.  My  death  drove 
the  wronger  into  the  deepest  depths  of  material¬ 
ism.  Complete  surrender  to  the  convictions  of 
this  creed  has  converted  the  unfortunate  into  a 
remorseless  egoist.  The  philosophy  of  egoism,  of 
which  he  is  the  greatest  living  master,  prompts 
every  thought,  impulse,  and  act  of  his  life.  This 
logos  of  self-love  must  be  permitted  to  bring  forth 
its  own  fruit,  the  satiating  flavor  of  which  is  the 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


155 


only  positive  cure  for  the  intellectual  and  spiritual 
disease,  from  which  this  philosophy  springs. 

Fiat  Lux ! 

You  will  partially  appreciate  my  relation  to  the 
doings  of  this  wondrous  day  when  you  learn  my 
name. 

You  will  believe,  and  eagerly  obey  everything 
we  ask,  when  you  know  through  whom  these 
words  are  conveyed  to  you. 

You  will  treasure  those  entrusted  to  you  with 
the  same  deathless  devotion  which  you  have 
showm  to  the  memory  of  the  unutterably  loving 
one  who  now  guides  your  hand  as  you  write  these 
lines  :  the  woman  whose  proudest  privilege  and 
most  perfect  joy  is  to  be  : 

Your  Eternal  Mate, 

Stevna.” 

At  the  sight  of  that  name  Lefort  staggered 
back  with  a  cry  of  frantic  joy,  and  then  sank 
into  the  chair  at  the  side  of  the  table,  his  eyes 
staring,  vacantfy,  into  space,  his  lips  murmur¬ 
ing,  with  awe  and  ever  increasing  fervor  : 

‘  ‘  Stevna  !  Stevna  !  My  One  !  My  All !  ’  ’ 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  BRONZE  CHEST. 

In  i860  Earnest  Eefort,  one  of  the  favorite 
physicians  of  fashion,  suddenly  disappeared. 
PvUmor  declared  that  he  had  been  called  to 
Moscow  by  the  dangerous  illness  of  some 
Russian  Prince.  After  a  stay  of  over  ten 
months  he  returned  as  mysteriously  as  he  had 
departed. 

The  premature  silver  in  his  hair,  and  the  air 
of  mocker>7  in  his  manner,  which  had  replaced 
the  frank  and  candid  ways  that  had  always  been 
conspicuously  agreeable  in  the  conduct  of  the 
young  surgeon,  wrere  all  which  the  most  in¬ 
quisitive  could  discover,  that  seemed  asso¬ 
ciated,  in  any  wise  whatever,  with  his  pro¬ 
longed  absence. 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


157 


In  1863  an  eccentric  residence  was  erected 
upon  the  borders  of  the  “Bois,”  at  Passy. 
Its  peculiarity  attracted  immediate  attention. 
One  portion  was  exceedingly  light  and  grace¬ 
ful  in  design,  while  another  was  inconsistently 
massive  in  construction  and  gloomy  in  appear¬ 
ance.  Not  a  single  window  on  one  side  of  the 
sombre  wing  admitted  light  into  its  mysterious 
interior.  Only  the  doves,  for  whom  a  spacious 
refuge  had  been  prepared  in  the  roof  of  the 
main  section,  could  see  that  this  dismal  end  of 
the  dwelling  was  flooded  with  illumination 
through  its  roof.  Public  curiosity  was  piqued 
and  when  it  became  known  that  it  was 
to  be  the  future  home  of  Doctor  Defort,  the 
cunning  ones  at  the  club  and  in  the  salons 
cleverly  connected  the  unexplained  disappear¬ 
ance  of  the  physician  with  his  puzzling  little 
palace.  The  merry  or  morbid  imagination  of 
these  worthy  members  of  the  community  soon 
supplied  the  scandal-loving  crowd  with  a  var- 


158 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


iety  of  explanations  for  the  outer  architecture 
of  Lefort’s  abode,  which,  had  they  been  ad¬ 
mitted  to  the  trying  test  of  type,  would  have 
filled  volumes  of  startling  or  salacious  tales, 
and  thousands  of  good  people  with  horror  and 
revolt. 

From  the  moment  of  his  instalment  in  his 
new  home,  the  surgeon  inaugurated  a  series  of 
reunions,  wrhich  became  exceedingly  popular 
among  the  brilliant  men  and  women  of  the 
best  circles  of  society.  The  witty  host  ap¬ 
peared  to  take  a  feverish  delight  in  soirees  de¬ 
voted  to  the  freest  discussions  of  social,  relig¬ 
ious,  and  scientific  problems.  Everything 
that  concerned  the  welfare  or  affected  the 
progress  of  the  race  was  canvassed  in  the  most 
unconventional,  and  at  the  same  time,  in  the 
most  unaffectedly  refined  form.  Human  pas¬ 
sions  and  animal  functions  were  as  frankly 
considered  as  elemental  principles  or  political 
purposes.  This  combination  of  breadth  of 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


159 


view,  with  audacity  of  treatment  and  fastid¬ 
ious  decency  of  diction,  gave  to  those  “  noctes 
ambrosianae  ”  a  rare  and  wholesome  charm. 

The  boldest  of  Lefort’s  guests,  however, 
never  dared  to  question  their  host  concerning 
that  quarter  of  his  hospitable  home  to  which 
they  remained  permanently  uninvited.  Only 
a  few  of  the  doctor’s  most  intimate  comrades 
were  permitted  to  penetrate  its  remote  recesses, 
and  they  continued  faithful  to  the  confidence 
which  their  entrance  to  its  seclusion  implied. 

The  forbidding  attachment  to  the  doctor’s 
inviting  abode,  contained  his  laboratory,  sleep¬ 
ing  apartment,  and  private  study.  In  the 
latter  was  deposited  the  treasure  which  was 
the  cause  of  the  physician’s  reticence  and  of 
that  ponderous  security  of  construction  which 
gave  a  prison-like  appearance  to  a  portion  of 
his  palace. 

There  stood  in  the  sanctum  adjoining  the 
doctor’s  bedroom  a  long  bronze  chest  resem- 


i6o 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


bling  a  sarcophagus.  The  exterior  of  this 
unique  curio  was  decorated  with  exquisite  art. 
The  morning  glory  interlaced  the  ivy  vine  and 
both  ran  over  a  mass  of  moss,  upon  which  was 
strewn  with  reckless  profusion,  pansies,  came- 
lias,  and  forget-me-nots.  The  apparently  ac¬ 
cidental  distribution  of  these  blossoms  concealed 
the  cunning  deliberation  of  the  floral  design 
about  that  cryptic  case.  Two  names  were 
deftly  interwoven  by  the  seemingly  aimless 
combination  of  flowers  that  lay  upon  the  brown 
sod,  whose  bronze  embrace  clasped  so  securely 
the  secrets  of  that  repository.  Even  to  the 
sister,  who  was  his  closest  confident  and  com¬ 
rade,  this  metal  box  remained  a  mystery. 

“  It  is  the  vault  of  a  sacred  void.” 

These  were  the  only  words  which  he  had 
ever  uttered  regarding  that  strangely  chiselled 
chest,  and  they  were  said  to  Amelie  with  a 
manner  that  made  further  inquisition  im¬ 
possible. 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


161 


In  verity  this  coffer,  whose  exterior  was  so 
gaily  bedecked  with  blossoms,  was  the  locker 
of  an  awful  loss,  the  coffin  of  a  divine  hope, 
the  cradle  of  a  deadly  despair,  the  holy  cache 
of  a  cruel  delight. 

No  eye  but  his,  had  ever  seen  the  contents 
of  his  adytum.  It  held  no  tissue  of  silk  or 
satin  ;  no  grain  of  gold  or  carat  of  precious 
gem  ;  not  one  of  those  many  things — 

“  O’er  which,  from  level  stand, 

The  low  world  lays  its  hand, 

Finds  straightway  to  its  mind,  can  value  in  a  trice.” 

It  was  devoid  of  all  that  market  mind  would 
prize,  but  it  was  packed  with  everything  that 
was  most  precious  to  the  manhood  of  its 
owner. 

The  busy  healer  of  other’s  ills  never  sought 
rest,  nor  awoke  to  work,  without  kneeling  at 
this  shrine,  lifting  its  ponderous  lid,  and  for  a 
time,  losing  himself  amongst  the  maze  of  its 
sacred  memories,  absorbing  from  the  passions 
and  pangs  which  they  bestowed,  the  sole 


162 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


sanctification  which  this  inveterate  materialist 
had  ever  sought  or  accepted. 

Within  this  pyx  were  three  compartments. 
One  of  them  contained  letters  that  were  the 
only  record  of  a  divine  but  utterly  reckless 
love.  Another  held  a  hoard  of  trivial  but 
treasured  trinkets.  The  third,  which  lay 
between  the  other  two,  garded  with  its  massive 
walls,  the  pure  white  ashes  of  a  suicide. 

The  name  which  this  cremated  one  had 
borne  on  earth  was — Stevna. 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


163 


CAPPTER  V. 

THE  APPARITION. 

The  personal  attachments  by  sturdy  temper¬ 
aments  exert  an  overwhelming  influence  over 
the  intellectual  activity  of  the  individual.  A 
robust  brain  often  summons  sufficient  volition 
to  resist  the  assault  of  a  mighty  passion,  but  the 
most  puissant  intellect  will,  ultimately,  sur¬ 
render  to  the  steadfast  influence  of  a  supreme 
affection. 

How  frequently  men  of  the  highest  intell¬ 
ectual  force  become  the  victims  of  worthless 
women,  and  how  impossible  it  is  for  these 
men — whose  minds  have  a  very  ready  percep¬ 
tion  of  the  real  value  of  all  other  individuals 
with  whom  they  come  in  contact — to  be  taught, 
even  by  the  most  revelatory  experience,  the 


164 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


inferiority  of  the  one  who,  by  some  strange 
fatality,  has  succeeded  in  awakening  the 
affection  of  an  exceptionally  potent  person¬ 
ality  ! 

Could  the  world  have  witnessed  and  under¬ 
stood  the  lofty  grandeur  of  the  atheist’s  love 
for  Stevna  Vakoff,  all  that  was  worthiest  in  it 
would  have  felt  for  him  a  new  and  lasting 
reverence. 

Lefort  was  a  man  whose  intellectual  endow¬ 
ment  was  so  excessive  that  it  had  enabled  him 
to  distinguish  himself  wTith  ease  in  every  field 
of  science  to  which  he  had  given  his  attention. 
The  imposing  proportions  of  his  mind  was  the 
attribute  which  most  emphatically  impressed 
the  world  about  him.  His  scorn  of  conven¬ 
tions,  his  independence  of  character,  his  hatred 
of  hypocrisies,  his  merciless  scathing  of  frauds, 
the  outspoken  courage  of  his  convictions, 
together  with  his  lofty  indifference  to  popu¬ 
larity,  won  far  less  recognition  than  the  force 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


165 


of  his  mental  faculties,  whose  logic  was  wont 
.to  deal  such  staggering  blows  to  superstition 
and  sentimentalism  in  the  cause  of  materialism 
and  its  kindred  bigotries. 

Eefort’s*  noble  nature  had  known  an  all- 
absorbing  love  for  one  who  was  the  highest 
type  of  woman  kind.  This  love  had  brought 
to  his  life  its  deepest  joy  and  its  most  tragic 
woe.  But  for  the  deathless  presence  of  this 
great  affection  in  the  substance  of  his  soul,  all 
the  exceptional  experiences  of  that  marvellous 
day  of  May  would  have  received  a  very  differ¬ 
ent  interpretation  by  him,  from  that  which 
their  association  with  the  name  of  the  woman 
he  loved  impelled  his  mind  to  make.  But  for 
Stevna,  Earnest  Eefort  would  have  firmly 
believed  that  all  the  exotic  but  incontrovertable 
facts  connected  with  that  night,  were  the  result 
of  some  subtle  vibration,  emanating  from  the 
abnormal  nervous  system  of  the  young  woman 
who  had  just  become  a  mother,  and  that  her 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


1 66 

hyper-hysteric  condition  had  become  so  ex¬ 
cessive  as  to  produce  a  nervous  disease  which 
had  contagiously  affected  every  one  in  contact 
with  her.  The  name  of  Stevna,  the  sight  of 
her  face,  and  of  that  burning  sapphire  which 
was  the  signal  of  the  great  secret  between 
their  souls,  awakened  with  overpowering  force 
the  long  pent  up  flood  of  his  affections,  and 
fixed  forever  in  his  mind,  that  unchangable 
conviction  of  immortality  which  was  there¬ 
after  to  influence  every  thought  and  act  of  his 
life. 

In  the  tender  but  terrible  hand  of  love  men 
are  but  toys.  *  The  lightest  touch  of  its  subtle 
substance  inspires  the  most  frantic  fear  or 
awakens  the  wildest  hope.  The  most  stubborn 
will  surrenders  to  the  irresistible  witchery  of 
its  gentle  sway.  The  most  positive  mind  is 
converted  to  the  faith  for  which  it  has  the  least 
affinity,  by  the  spontaneous  logic  of  its  living 
light. 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


167 


One  form  of  love  had  transformed  a  super¬ 
stitious  saint  into  a  willing  assassin.  Another 
form  of  love  conjured  by  an  honored  name, 
subdued  the  imperious  will  and  convinced  the 
unbelieving  mind  of  the  most  hardened  nihi¬ 
list,  rendering  him  from  that  hour,  the  eager 
ready  slave  of  the  extremest  occultism. 

The  only  romance  and  the  chief  reality  of 
Lefort’s  life  was  associated  with  the  name  of 
Stevna.  For  seven  years  no  voice  but  his, 
had  ever  uttered  it  within  hearing  of  his  ear. 
For  seven  years  no  hand  but  his,  had  ever 
written  it  within  sight  of  his  eye. 

On  that  memorable  night  of  the  third  of  May, 
as  the  climax  of  all  the  distracting  experiences 
by  which  his  sturdy  mind  had  been  assailed, 
this  name,  for  the  first  time  in  all  these  years, 
appeared  to  him  by  virtue  of  another  will  than 
his  own,  and  under  conditions  that  com¬ 
manded  him  to  believe  that  the  individuality 
of  the  all-precious  one  so  intimately  associated 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


1 68 

with  that  word  still  existed  ;  that  her  life  was 
again  linked  with  his,  and  that  some  great 
purpose  was  henceforth  to  keep  them  in  close 
communion,  almost  in  conscious  contact  with 
each  other. 

Torn  by  a  terrible  conflict  between  the 
dominating  doubts  of  his  naturally  material 
mind,  and  the  wild  hopes  of  his  worshipping 
heart,  he  now  murmured  with  passionate 
appeal ;  ‘  ‘  Stevna — if  this  be  true — if  Immor¬ 
tality  be  not  a  myth — if  you,  my  mistress — 
you,  the  core  of  my  life — still  exist,  then,  in 
pity’s  name  I  conjure  you — come  to  me  ! — Let 
me  feel,  hear,  see  you,  that  I  may  know,  once 
and  forever,  that  death  is  a  lie,  and  love  an 
eternal  reality  !” 

As  this  low  intense  cry  of  his  famished  heart 
ended,  a  pause  of  breathless  silence  and  sus¬ 
pense  succeeded.  Soon  a  faint  luminous  veil 
slowly  emerged  out  of  space  into  the  dim 
illumination  of  the  half -lighted  room,  and 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


169 

hovered  over  the  body  of  the  priest,  who  lay 
with  death-like  immobility  on  the  bed.  Eager 
and  anxious,  the  obstinate  doubter  e3^ed  in¬ 
tently  that  nebulous  mist.  Gradually,  in  plain 
sight,  that  phosphorescent  haze  assumed  a 
human  form.  Presently  there  stood  before 
him — positive,  and  dilating  with  the  breath  of 
life — the  figure  of  a  woman.  As  her  face 
became  clear,  Eefort  started  forward  exclaim¬ 
ing  with  an  almost  frantic  delight :  *  ‘  Prin- 
cesse  !” 

His  movement  was  instantly  checked  by  a 
signal  from  the  apparition  which  imperatively 
forbade  approach.  Slowfy  lifting  her  hand, 
this  radiant  messenger  from  the  relams  of  the 
real,  extended  her  arm  toward  her  enraptured 

lover,  who  then  beheld  upon  her  marriage 
finger  a  jewel  gleaming  with  intense  ultra — 

marine  light.  With  a  groan,  he  recoiled, 
muttering  :  “  My  God  !  The  sapphire  !” 

At  the  word  the  apparition  disappeared* 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


170 

Convinced  at  last  of  the  certainty  of  Immor¬ 
tality,  and  of  the  ever  living  love  of  the  noble 
woman  who  had  awakened  the  sole  absorbing 
passion  of  his  life,  his  heart  s-welled  with  a 
triumphant  consciousness  of  eternity  that  burst 
forever  the  iron  bond  of  despair  which  had 
fettered  it  so  long.  Tears  streamed  down  his 
cheeks.  Swept  away  by  the  sublimity  of  the 
convictions  which  this  transcendent  experience 
had  forced  upon  his  ever  doubting  mind,  he 
leaned  over  the  table,  his  face  buried  in  his 
arms,  and  sobbed  with  an  ecstacy  as  great  as 
the  agony  'which  a  few  hours  before,  had  con¬ 
vulsed  his  ascetic  friend  and  excited  his 
contempt. 


FATHER  AMBROSE, 


171 


CHAPTER  VI. 

LOVE  THAT  CONQUERS  SCORN. 

It  was  a  considerable  time  before  the  strong 
man  mastered  the  paroxysm  of  his  passion. 

Those  moments  of  convulsion  appeared  to 
recreate  the  character  of  Lefort.  The  cyni¬ 
cism,  bitterness,  and  harshness  of  the  mater¬ 
ialistic  taint,  were  swept  out  of  his  heart  by 
the  lavish  torrent  of  those  cleansing  tears  ;  and 
when  at  last  he  rose,  his  face  was  aglow 
with  a  spiritual  grandeur  that  had  never 
rested  there  before.  The  determination  of  a 
measureless  tenderness  animated  his  will. 
One  single  purpose  aroused  the  force  of  every 
faculty,  and  that  was  to  carry  out,  with  the 
minutest  care,  each  and  every  one  of  Stevna’s 
directions ;  to  accomplish  all  which  her  great 


172 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


soul  could  desire  ;  to  be  once  more  her  proud 
and  happy  slave  ! 

The  harsh  clang  of  a  bell  broke  upon  the 
solemn  stillness  of  that  mystic  moment.  It 
seemed  to  assert  all  the  blatant  vulgarity  of 
the  material,  as  distinct  from  the  refinement 
and  exquisite  dignity,  of  the  spiritual  life.  It 
increased  Lefort’s  consciousness  of  the  vast 
importance  of  the  work  entrusted  to  him,  by 
the  horror  which  it  inspired  at  the  possibility 
of  any  intrusive  demand  from  the  flippant 
world  it  was  his  professional  duty  to  serve. 

As  the  clang  of  the  bell  was  repeated,  the 
physician  hurried  from  the  room  to  silence  the 
untimely  intruder  at  the  gate.  In  an  instant 
he  found  himself  face  to  face  with  Robert,  who 
with  much  excitement,  hastened  to  inform 
him  through  the  iron  palings  of  the  villa  fence, 
that  the  head  of  the  great  house  of  Rothschilds 
was  dangerously  ill ;  that  doctor  Tefort  had 
been  sent  for  in  great  haste  by  his  most  dis- 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


173 


tinguished  confreres  for  consultation  at  the 
imperial  palace  of  the  mighty  millionaire. 

Tefort’s  reply  was  characteristic:  “Tell 
them  I  am  kept  at  a  cottage  by  a  more  impor¬ 
tant  call.” 

The  coachman  stared  at  his  master,  stupi- 
fied  with  astonishment. 

Tefort  startled  Robert  into  activity  by  shout¬ 
ing  savagely  :  “Be  off  wTith  my  message  ! 
And  mark  this:  don’t  dare  to  return  with 
any  call  until  you  hear  from  me  that  I  am 
ready  to  respond.’’  Then,  as  the  servant 
hesitated,  scarcely  believing  his  own  ears,  the 
doctor  hissed  at  him  impatiently  :  “  Va’t’en!’’ 

The  lackey  leapt  to  his  cab  ;  the  sound  of  a 
horse’s  gallop  died  in  the  distance.  Lefort, 
for  the  first  time,  looked  up  and  realized  the 
glory  of  the  cloudless,  star-packed  space  above 
his  head,  whose  remoteness  from  the  minute¬ 
ness  of  earth’s  agitations  seemed  so  wholly  in 
keeping  with  the  world-forgetting  work  that 
lay  before  him. 


174 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


A  king  of  mammon’s  realm  had  appealed  in 
his  peril  to  the  surgeon’s  skill.  How  paltry 
and  petty  this  appeal  appeared,  in  comparison 
with  that  of  the  nameless  babe  born  in  the 
lowly  villa  of  an  obscure  street  !  As  Lefort 
stood  alone  in  the  pathway  before  the  house  in 
which  he,  seemed  to  have  lived  a  lifetime  dis¬ 
tinctly  its  own — although  but  a  few  hours 
before  he  had  never  heard  of  its  existence — 
there  came  upon  him  a  full  consciousness  of 
the  radical  change  which  had  been  wrought 
•within  his  own  spirit,  and  which  was  fated  to 
create  so  wide  a  difference  between  his  future 
and  his  past  life.  He  had  been  the  champion 
of  the  manifest  and  the  material ;  the  bitter 
opponent  of  all  that  was  not  salient  to  sense 
and  easily  reached  by  reason.  He  knew  now, 
that  his  life  was  destined  to  be  occupied  with 
the  occult ;  that  it  was  dedicated  to  the  investi¬ 
gation  of  the  mystic  ;  the  search  after  the 
subtle  ;  the  pursuit  of  the  spiritual.  He  knew 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


175 


that  seekers  after  the  psychic  were  regarded 
with  contempt  by  all  of  his  own  fraternity; 
that  they  were  forced  to  contend,  not  only 
with  the  prejudices  of  the  social,  and  the  pro¬ 
fessional  worlds,  but  also  with  the  rascality  of 
that  army  of  charlatans  who  are  so  prompt  to 
make  a  pretext  of  the  mysterious,  for  the 
practice  of  impositions  upon  the  credulity  of 
ignorance. 

He  knew  well  that  if  he  dared  to  affirm  to 
the  scientific  world  by  which  he  had  been  so 
long  honored,  the  existence  of  such  pheno¬ 
mena  as  he  had  just  experienced  with  over¬ 
powering  positiveness,  that,  in  spite  of  the 
severity  of  his  professional  training  and  his 
well-known  hatred  to  humbug,  he  would  be 
declared  a  lunatic,  or  classed  with  those  scien¬ 
tific  smatterers  and  esoteric  sharpers  whom  he 
loathed  so  heartily.  Notwithstanding  his 
past  repugnance  to  this  field  of  phenomena, 
notwithstanding  that  peril  to  his  future,  he 


176 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


advanced  to  the  consummation  of  the  work 
which  Stevna  had  confided  to  his  care  not 
only  without  fear,  but  with  a  glad  willingness 
to  endure  all  the  reproach  and  loss  of  prestige 
which  such  a  task  might  entail  upon  him. 

In  this  spirit  he  re-entered  the  house,  eager 
to  undertake  his  difficult  and  dangerous  com¬ 
mission. 

To  love  he  had  surrendered  all  thought  of 
worldly  welfare,  and,  what  was  a  far  more 
magnificent  proof  of  the  self  abnegation  which 
that  miracle  worker  involves,  he  had  yielded 
up  to  love  every  petty  prejudice  of  his  positive 
mind,  against  a  realm  of  phenomena  which  he 
had  always  regarded  with  aversion  and  con¬ 
tempt.  Tove  that  conquers  scorn,  is  love 
transcending  all  belief,  but  that  born  of  its 
own  illuminating  presence. 

While  hurrying  to  the  room  above,  the 
doctor  discovered  Clarisse  lying  upon  the 
stairs.  She  was  in  the  profound  slumber  of 


FATHER  AMBROSE 


177 


complete  exhaustion.  The  hound  reclined 
lazily  at  her  feet,  and  eyed  him  as  uncon¬ 
cernedly  as  though  his  presence  in  the  house 
at  that  unusual  hour,  was  an  occurrence  that 
custom  had  rendered  common. 

In  his  haste  to  reach  the  gate  he  had  passed 
these  motionless  ones  without  notice.  He 
paused,  with  a  fleet  surprise  at  all  this,  and 
then  sped  swiftly  to  his  work. 

Contact  with  the  cool  air  of  the  night,  and 
the  sight  of  its  soothing  serenity,  had  entirely 
restored  the  calm  and  poise  of  his  mind,  with¬ 
out  lessening  in  the  least,  however,  the 
consciousness  of  the  actuality  of  his  experi¬ 
ences,  or  that  conviction  of  Stevna’s  living 
nearness  which  inspired  him  with  such  a 
singular  newness  of  purpose. 

As  he  re-entered  the  chamber  he  saw  that 
Lemaitre  was  carefully  replacing  the  Surgical 
instruments  in  the  bag.  Close  upon  Amelie’s 
breast  reposed  the  child. 


-«» 


178 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


The  surgeon  paused  at  his  sister’s  side, 
studying  the  two  intently. 

The  drift  of  the  physician’s  thought  as  he 
gazed  at  the  infant,  was  mortifying  to  his 
professional  pride. 

Superstition,  through  the  priest,  had  fanati¬ 
cally  doomed  the  mother.  Science  had  sum¬ 
moned  the  surgeon’s  skill  to  crush  and  mutilate 
the  mortal  part  of  this  exquisite  little  creature, 
whose  spiritual  worth  it  was  impossible  for 
him  to  adequately  estimate.  Nature — or  that 
omnipotence  of  the  whole  which  waits  on  every 
part,—  and  the  infinite  subtlety  of  whose  per¬ 
fect  providence  escapes  the  scrutiny  of  finite 
faculty — had  rescued  both  of  these  strangely 
protected  ones  from  the  imperious  prejudices 
of  priest  and  leech,  by  wonderous  ways. 

It  was  with  the  humility  born  of  reflection 
such  as  this,  that  Earnest  Lefort  commenced 
the  task,  to  which  wonder  gave  an  interest  so 
great,  and  love  a  sanctity  so  deep.  Turning 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


179 


to  the  manuscript  which  he  had  left  upon  the 
table,  he  examined  it  again,  in  order  to  note 
the  directions  with  exactness.  He  discovered 
that  it  was  composed  of  five  separate  com¬ 
munications.  The  first  addressed  to  him  in 
Amelie’s  hand,  and  the  second,  addressed  to 
him  in  his  own  hand,  he  had  already  read. 
The  third,  entitled — ‘  ‘  Substantial  Intimation,  ’  ’ 
and  the  fourth  entitled — “  The  New  Avatar,” 
— borne  upon  their  title  pages  the.se  words  : 

“  Not  to  be  read  until  twenty-four  hours  after  the  experiences 
in  the  villa  shall  have  been  completed  ;  and  not  to  be  published 
until  many  years  of  patient  experiment  shall  have  prepared 
Doctor  Lefort  to  present  this  subject  to  the  world  in  a  manner 
that  shall  command  the  gratitude  of  the  enlightened,  and  the 
respect  of  the  sense  deluded  crowd.” 

The  fifth  paper  was  addressed  to  father 
Ambrose  in  the  doctor’s  hand,  and  upon  this 
was  written  the  following  request  : 

"  The  doctor  will  please  retain  this  communication  until  the 
priest  has  passed  through  a  normal  sleep  and  awakened  in  the 
full  possession  of  his  faculties.” 


After  concluding  a  number  of  experiments 


i8o 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


upon  Amelie  and  Jacques,  are  found  the  follow¬ 
ing  remarks : 

“  I  have  done  all  that  previous  knowledge  and  present  inven¬ 
tion  could  suggest,  to  thoroughly  examine  my  sister  and  pupil 
I  have  at  length  relinquished  my  control  of  their  organisms  and 
passed  them  into  normal  sleep. 

The  time  has  arrived  for  experiment  upon  the  priest,  and  the 
observation  of  its  reflex  action  upon  the  patient. 

First. — That  cerebrations  essential  to  the  formulation  of  origi¬ 
nal  ideas,  or  exalted  inspirations,  cannot  be  induced  by  any  ex¬ 
terior  suggestion. 

Second. — That  there  is  a  most  vital  and  significant  distinction 
between  that  which  science  has  already  recognized — as  uncon¬ 
scious  cerebration — and  that  which  has  been  demonstrated  to  me 
here — as  non  conscious  cerebration. 

Third. — That  the  act  of  generation— and  all  the  wars  which 
affect  its  awful  influence  upon  Humanity — transcends  in  importance 
every  problem  of  progress  which  is  presented  by  life  for  the 
solution  of  the  social  scientist. 

Fourth.— That  never,— until  the  ignoble  ideas  entertained 
by  the  unenlightened  concerning  that  act,  have  been  abolished 
from  the  brains  of  the  mass— can  there  be  any  just  hope  of 
lasting,  or  continuous  improvement  in  the  evolution  ot  man¬ 
kind.  I  never  grasped  till  now  the  grandeur  of  that  simple 
word — Free-man, — nor  understood  before  the  sublime  develop¬ 
ment  it  announces. 

Who  has  the  right  to  claim  a  title  that  denotes  such  ages  of 
emancipating  mistake  and  misery,  and  therefore  such  a  lofty 
rank  in  nature,  as  that  much  abused  word  indicates  ? 

Fortunately  the  stenographic  training  which 
the  doctor  had  received  at  school  enabled  him 
to  record,  with  considerable  accuracy,  the 
utterance  of  the  raphsodic  man. 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


181 

Curious  to  test  the  effect  of  an  interrogation 
whose  suggestion  of  doubt  might  possibly  goad 
the  bigoted  theologian  into  some  new  mani¬ 
festation  of  original  mental  energy,  the  mentor 
asked  :  “Was  the  conception  of  Christ  the 
result  of  an  immaculate  or  natural  act?” 

This  question  occasioned  the  most  impetuous 
outburst  from  Ambrose,  and  started  him  into  a 
whirl  of  wonder-breeding  words. 

As  the  query  entered  his  ears  the  curate,  at 
first,  grew  rigid,  then  the  mindless  immobility, 
into  which  his  face  had  relapsed,  passed  into 
an  expression  of  exaltation  which  transfigured 
his  features  with  a  beauty  impossible  to  des¬ 
cribe.  After  as  light  pause  his  head  slowly  fell 
upun  his  breast,  and  with  a  voice  full  of  heart¬ 
seeking  sadness,  he  commenced,  in  a  rythm 
far  less  free  than  that  of  his  former  chant — the 
recital  of  this  strange  tirade — 

“  The  crudest  crosses  of  Christ  are  the  lies  of  the  Church  He 
loves. 

The  fiction  regarding  his  birth  is  fundamentally  false. 


183 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


Those  cravens  who  shrink  from  the  stain— are  already 
touched  with  its  taint. 

Those  who  quickly  ■wince  at  a  word — must  soon  taste  the  woe 
of  the  weak. 

Not  a  thing  is  vile  but  man’s  thought,  for  each,  in  its  place, 
serves  the  all. 

Every  part  coinpleteth  the  whole, — whose  perfection  depends 
on  the  part. 

The  worm  is  a  word  in  His  phrase ; — Man  the  volume  revealing 

His  will.” 

Then  the  priest  strode  to  the  side  of  the  bed, 
and  lifting  his  hands  with  a  grandeur  of  grace 
that  thrilled  even  the  unemotional  mind  of  the 
doctor,  he  pronounced  the  following  daring 
declarations : 

**  Oh  !  Ears  that  can  hear  let  them  list ! 

The  astral  ethers  are  ringing  with  the  triumph  songs  of  the 
just. 

For  the  Verb  of  Harmonial  Vigor  is  born  to  Man  this  night  1 

She  bears  the  Evangel  of  Virtue — that  saves  from  dirt  and 
deceit. 

That  proveth  the  naked  noble — the  secret  the  source  of  all 
sin. 

That  strips  the  sanctum  of  sex — of  concealments  befouling  its 
worth. 

That  shrives  it  of  every  shame — which  confession  has  forced 
on  its  flame.. 

That  purgeth  its  passion  from  lust — exalting  its  hunger  with 
love. 

That  hallows  its  God-touching  clash— and  chastens  it  man¬ 
making  choice. 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


183 


Rejoice  ! — Oh  ye  children  of  woe  ! 

The  tender  uplifter  hath  come — to  lighten  the  load  of  the 
low. 

The  bearer  of  blessing  is  here — to  heal  the  deep  wounds  of 
disease  ! 

She  comes  to  battle  tradition — which  denies  great  Nature  her 
rights. 

To  show  the  betrayal  by  Church — of  the  trust  of  the  low-born 
son. 

The  last  words  were  murmured  with  ca¬ 
dences  of  joy  most  musical  and  sweet.  As 
their  vibrations  died  away  the  body  of  the 
young  father  sank  softly  upon  the  couch  of  the 
New  Avatar,  and  passed  into  peaceful  sleep. 

Mother,  child,  and  guardian,  lay  close  in 
each  other’s  arms. 

The  sight  of  their  enlacement,  conjured  in 
mind  of  the  doctor  a  vision  of  Palestine.  The 
mellow  light  of  that  Mother-land  illumined  the 
scene  of  the  carpenter’s  labor,  revealing  the  self- 
crushing  glory  of  Joseph — the  shield  of  “  man- 
lawless”  love. 

Two  facts  of  deep  moment  to  mankind  were 
established  by  Lefort’s  experiments. 


184 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


First. — The  human  organism  was  proven  to 
be  a  mechanism  pervaded  by  forces  solely  its 
own,  or  absolutely  distinct  from  the  animating 
substance  with  which  it  is  usually  associated, 
and  which  gives  it  all  that  activity  rightfully 
called  life. 

Second. — That  this  mechanism  might,  under 
certain  peculiar  conditions,  be  surrendered  by 
its  normal  animus,  and  pass  under  the  control 
of  influences  reaching  its  centres  of  cerebration 
either  from  the  exterior  objective  world,  or 
from  the  interior  subjective  world. 

The  scientist’s  experiments  upon  this  me¬ 
chanism,  made  by  outward  influence,  had 
resulted  in  the  development  of  a  most  impor¬ 
tant  opinion,  which  was  forcibly  emphasized 
by  those  raphsodies  of  the  religionist  which 
had  been  produced  by  the  inward  influences 
penetrating  his  organism  from  the  unseen 
world. 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


185 


This  harmony  between  the  declarations  of 
the  mystic  and  the  conclusions  of  the  material¬ 
ist,  concerning  the  vast  inport  of  man’s  view 
of  sex  and  of  its  noble  function,,  is  profoundly 
significant.  This  intense  coincidence  of  con¬ 
viction,  between  the  substantial  moral  sense 
and  the  logical  deductions  of  somatic  research, 
accentuates  the  supreme  consequences  of  this 
fundamental  question  in  social  science,  and  to 
that  system  of  mental  training  which,  begin¬ 
ning  with  boy  and  girlhood,  is  destined  to 
deliver  the  race  from  that  unnatural  attitude 
toward  natural  function  which  is  chiefly  re¬ 
sponsible  for  the  deepest  degradation  and  the 
most  morbid  diseases  that  now  debase  man¬ 
kind. 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


1 86 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  RESUSCITATION  OF  AMBROSE. 

Before  the  morning  light  of  the  fourth  of 
May  had  gilded  the  spires  of  Notre  Dame, 
Eefort  had  completed  his  investigations,  and 
had  recorded  phenomena  which  outstripped  in 
strangeness  everything  ever  before  observed 
by  the  trained  mind  of  a  scientist. 

The  first  direction  followed  by  Lefort  en¬ 
abled  the  Invisible  to  transmit  the  command  it 
possessed  over  Amelie,  Jacques,  and  Ambrose, 
to  the  doctor. 

Almost  immediately  after  this  had  been 
affected  a  change  took  place  in  the  aspect  of 
Ambrose.  The  character  of  the  alterations 
occurring  in  the  aspect  of  the  priest,  were 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


187 


noted  in  the  order  they  progressed,  with  the 
most  conscientious  accuracy  as  follows  : 

Pain  in  shoulder  so  severe  that  I  dopoed  the  hands  of  Amelie 
and  Ambrose,  with  an  involuntary  cry. 

Slight  change  in  priest’s  state  now  apparent.  The  ghastly 
tint  seems  to  be  lessening.  Have  placed  the  thermometer  in 
his  mouth  with  great  difficult}’-.  Jaws  affected  with  what  I 
should  ordinarily  suppose,  was  rigor  mortis. 

***** 

After  ten  minutes  the  same  resistance  from  jaws  while  re- 
moving  thermometer  as  I  encountered  in  placing  it.  Tem¬ 
perature  90  and  7-10.  Saliva  in  mouth  stringy,  as  in  early 
death. 

The  skin  is  mortally  damp  and  cold.  Tint  perceptibly 
decreased  in  pallor.  Pulse  indiscoverable.  Ausculation  reveals 
no  indications  of  activity  in  lungs  or  heart. 

Have  replaced  thermometer. 

***** 

After  sixteen  intensely  interesting  minutes  I  am  completely 
nonplussed.  The  cutaneous  color  proves  that  the  vaso-motor 
paralysis  has  passed  away,  and  would  distinctly  indicate  vascu¬ 
lar  activity,  but  the  most  careful  ausculation  does  not  reveal 
the  slightest  movement  of  the  heart,  nor  the  faintest  trace  of 
respiration. 

Is  the  eye  a  subtler  detector  than  the  ear,  or  is  there  a  mole¬ 
cular  vibration  in  the  blood  which  may  persist,  independently 
of  all  heart  impulse,  and  which  may  prevent,  for  an  indefinite 
time,  that  coagulation  which  ensures  death?  Skiu  positively 
life-like.  Circulation  at  surface  seems  complete.  Muscles  no 
longer  rigid,  although  not  yet  normally  relaxed.  Temperature 
now — 96  and  4-10. 

In  spite  of  increase  in  temperature  there  is  the  same  perplex¬ 
ing  lack  of  vital  energy  throughout  the  vascular  organism. 


188 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


Three  minutes  since  last  note. 

First  perceptible  motion  has  occurred.  The  lids  are  relaxing 
md  are  visibly  closing  over  the  iris  :  which  before,  was  at  least 
Ane  third  in  sight. 

Temperature  now— 94  and  6-10. 

Still  nothing  obtained  by  ausculation. 

***** 

Forty-two  seconds. 

Eids  have  suddenly  risen  with  convulsive  velocity.  They  are 
quivering.  Pupils  completely  dilated.  Eyeballs  partially  drawn 
up  into  sockets  and  fixed.  There  is  no  sign  of  Consciousness- 

Temperature  increased  one  tenth.  Respiration  and  pulse 
still  absent.  Ausculation  reveals  a  faint,  far  off,  monotonous 
murmur ;  so  slight,  that  I  am  uncertain  whether  the  sound  is 
not  the  product  of  my  own  imagination. 

It  has  increased  until  I  am  positive  it  is  the  result  of  some 
microcousmic  vibration  from  within. 

***** 

Ninety  seconds. 

Nostrils  quivering. 

Great  God  ! 

***** 

I  thought  my  experience  in  the  field  and  in  the  hospitals  had 
exhausted  the  possibilities  of  the  horrible.  I  was  mistaken.  I 
can  understand  madness  resulting  from  such  a  sight.  Every 
detail  will  haunt  me  with  the  utmost  vividness  as  long  as  I  live. 

If  the  horrors  attending  resuscitation  are  any  indications  of 
the  pangs  the  spirit  endures  by  a  return  to  earth  life,  it  is  easy 
to  understand  the  reluctance  of  those  who  have  passed  on  to 
retrace  their  steps,  and  natural  to  believe  that  nothing — but 
transcendant  love  for  those  still  lingering  here— could  gift  them 
with  the  God-like  courage  necessary  to  face  the  appalling  ex¬ 
periences  which  the  throes  I  have  just  seen  in  father  Ambrose 
would  seem  to  declare,  barred  the  road  to  re-appearance  in 
this  world. 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


189 


Lefort  continued  as  follows  : 

“Thirty-eight  minutes  since  the  first  indication  of  change  in 
Ambrose  was  observed.  He  now  lies  at  the  patient’s  side,  with 
every  appearance  of  health,  but  still  unconscious. 

Temperature — 97  and  9-10. 

Skin  moist  and  cool,  but  not  cold. 

Respiration — 19. 

Pulse— 58. 

Heart  action — regular,  and  normally  vigorous,  but  slow. 

Eyes  open,  and,  though  fixed,  evidently  fully  fitted  for  the 
visual  function. 

The  young  mother’s  condition  is  peculiarly  interesting. 

Her  temperature,  pulse,  respiration,  and  heart  action  are 
undoubtedly  regulated  by  Bonnard’s  for  her  whole  physiological 
condition  and  activity  is  precisely  the  same. 

There  is  some  profound  affinity  between  these  two,  and  yet 
my  suspicion  of  their  relation  is  rebuked  by  Stevna’s  words. 

Iam  now  certain,  that  so  long  as  I  maintain  my  hypnotic 
command  of  the  curate,  I  can  control  the  functional  status  of 
the  patient. 

There  is  no  need  of  any  anxiety  regarding  this  beautiful 
creature.  She  can  safely  be  left  to  the  healing  influence  of 
father  Ambrose,  while  I  am  making  my  experiments  with 
Amelie  and  Jacques.” 

Only  a  mind  as  searching,  a  heart  as  pure, 
and  a  conscience  as  clean  as  Lefort’s,  would 
have  dared  to  examine  those  subjects  of  scien¬ 
tific  investigation  as  exhaustively  as  he  effected. 
It  was  not  his  sister  nor  his  pupil  that  he 
scrutinized,  it  was  Nature — in  all  her  terrible 
integrity. 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


190 

lyocking  the  door  against  intrusion,  those 
two  human  manakins  were  restored  to  the 
unfettered  freedom  of  the  primal  state,  and 
the  play  of  elemental  potencies  was  tested  with 
the  audacity,  but  immaculate  nobility,  of  a 
truly  scientific  mind. 

He  now  proceeded  to  examine  Ambrose,  as 
faithfully  as  he  had  the  others. 

Aiming  to  discover,  if  it  were  possible  to 
obtain  from  the  clerical,  any  expression 
indicating  cerebration  that  was  independent  of 
outward  instigation,  he  ceased  to  command 
and  sought  simply  to  induce  mental  activity, 
by  a  series  of  questions. 

After  several  attempts  which  evoked  no 
replies  that  evinced  the  presence  of  any  new 
or  original  thought — it  occurred  to  Lefort  to 
question  Ambrose  concerning  the  real  meaning 
and  rank  of  that  elemental  power  in  nature 
called  sex.  The  moment  this  subject  was 
broached  the  aspect  of  the  priest  was  slowly 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


191 

transformed.  The  light  of  real  intelligence 
appeared  in  his  eyes  for  the  first  time.  Pre¬ 
sently  he  lifted  his  head,  and,  in  tones  of 
triumph,  burst  into  this  rythmic  chant : 

“  In  the  realm  of  the  Real-life 
Thus  they  word  the  Hypostasis  ; 

Thus  they  poem  the  time  sense 
The  evolving  of  the  princeps 
By  whose  potence  love  takes  Life- form 

Long  before  the  birth  of  Ages, 

God’s  nirvana  was  invaded, 

By  a  dream  of  mating  love, 

And,  half  wakened  by  its  wonder 
God  soft  whispered  to  Himself. 

That  faint  whisper  born  of  mate-love, 

Broke  the  silence  of  the  spaces, 

Wreck’d  the  balanced  poise  of  Somos, 

From  whose  sudden-shattered  centre 

Burst  the  awful  circinations 

That  first  vortexed  through  the  vastneaa. 

Whirling  through  the  neuter  plenum 
The  discordant  crash  of  Chaos. 

But  the  law  of  that  love-whisper, 

Tamed  the  aimless  turmoil  clashing 
Through  the  raging  endlessness, 

And  evolved  from  Anarch’s  storming 
Two  completing  forms  of  force, 

By  whose  power  passion’s  tempest 
Ever  tends  to  fruitful  peace. 


192 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


Did  distinguish  through  the  void 
Two  unending  separations, 

Ever  eager  to  unite  ; 

Did  determine  in  the  Protos 
Two  close-touching  oppositions, 

Each  perfecting  to  the  other  ; 

Did  abolish  from  the  plenum 
All  its  primal  neuteraess, 

And  established  in  its  substance 
Two  supreme  potential  yearnings, 

Two  completing  poles  of  sex, 

From  whose  commerce  flows  creation. 
Their  coition  breeding  cosmos, 

Wedding  Essence  to  Existence, 

Thus  begetting  consciousness, 

*  Through  whose  many  wondrous  lenses 
Streams  the  light  that  shows  in  life-forms 
Dove  is  substance  of  all  Daw.” 


This  chant  was  sung  with  a  most  weird 
and  impressive  emphasis,  and  proved  such  an 
unexpected  exhibition  of  original  mental 
activity  that  Lefort  was  startled.  He  realized 
how  foreign  this  proem — as  Ambrose  called  it 
— was  to  any  concept  in  his  own  mind,  as  well 
as  to  the  faith  of  the  priest  himself.  He  per¬ 
ceived  that  he  was  encountering  a  phase  of 
cerebration  quite  different  from  any  which  his 
experiments  with  the  others  had  produced.  He 
became  convinced  that  this  chant  was  produced 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


193 


by  some  influence  entirely  distinct  from  his 
own,  and  which  was  evidently  of  a  purely 
subjective  character. 

He  pursued  his  inquiries  with  renewed  energy 
— asking  fundamental  questions,  which,  much 
to  his  disappointment,  elicited  nothing  from 
the  cerebral  mechanism  of  the  priest  of  any 
consequence  whatever.  Suddenly  it  occurred 
to  him  to  investigate  the  religionist  concerning 
a  matter  of  elemental  importance  to  the 
doctrines  he  was  wont  to  preach.  He  sup¬ 
posed  this  inquiry  would  arouse  only  such 
cerebrations  as  the  brain  of  the  clergyman, 
when  in  its  normal  conditions,  was  most 
accustomed  to  evolve.  He  expected  to  secure 
a  more  or  less  fluent  formulation  of  orthodox 
platitudes,  but  was  thunderstruck  to  obtain 
from  him  the  most  fervent  expression  of  ideas 
denunciatory  of  the  fanatic’s  dearest  dogmas, 
and  annunciatory  of  concepts  outreaching  in 
radical  audacity  the  dictum  of  the  most 
heterodox. 


194 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  FATAL  LETTER. 

Before  commencing  his  experiments  upon 
Father  Ambrose,  Eefort  had  commanded  the 
hypnotized  man  to  rise  and  clothe  himself. 
While  Bonnard  was  obeying  this  injunction 
the  doctor  noticed  that,  (as  Stevna  had  pre¬ 
dicted,)  he  placed  to  one  side  upon  the  toilet 
stand  a  carefully  sealed  package  and  a  letter, 
whose  pages  he  took  pains  to  fold  in  such  a 
way  as  to  conceal  their  contents. 

When  the  priest  sank  to  rest  the  scientific 
researches  of  the  physician  were  necessarily 
suspended  for  a  time.  Feeling  fatigued  from 
his  long  labors  the  doctor  turned  to  his 
medicine  chest  for  some  stimulant  with  which 
to  fortify  himself  for  the  work  still  before 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


195 

him.  This  movement  brought  the  package 
directly  under  his  eye.  He  then  observed 
that  it  consisted  of  a  very  large  envelope 
whose  edges  bore  a  deep  band  of  mourning, 
and  that  it  was  addressed  to — Madame  Con¬ 
stance  de  Vaugars.  The  name  of  Constantine 
immediately  recalled  Stevna’ s  words  concern¬ 
ing  the  patient.  Tefort’s  curiosity  became 
intense.  The  desire  to  unmask  the  domestic 
mystery  surrounding  this  strange  case  almost 
equalled  that  which  he  had  felt  to  solve  the 
pathological  problems  which  it  presented. 

The  young  mother  had  been  deeply  wronged. 
She  had  been  the  victim  of  one  who  had  been 
driven  into  the  deepest  depths  of  egoism  by 
the  death  of  Stevna.  This  much  the  commu¬ 
nication  of  the  Invisible  had  revealed. 

What  was  the  crime,  and  who  was  the 
criminal  ? 

Stevna  had  told  him  that  he  was  soon  to 
discover,  but  she  had  also  warned  him,  in 


196 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


emphatic  terms,  to  beware  of  revealing  his 
discovery  even  to  those  most  concerned  in 
knowing  the  truth.  As  the  memory  of  her 
words  grew  vivid,  his  impatience  to  compre¬ 
hend  what  she  meant  increased,  to  an  extent 
which  he  himself  recognized  as  almost  childish. 

He  picked  up  the  package,  whose  seals  were 
yet  unbroken,  with  a  dim  idea  that  a  closer 
inspection  of  its  exterior  might  in  some  way 
enlighten  him.  As  he  did  this  he  accidently 
pushed  to  the  floor  the  letter  that  lay  beside  it. 
Its  pages  parted.  One  of  them  turned  over 
and  exposed  the  handwriting.  Its  familiarity 
instantly  impressed  but  puzzled  him.  He 
lifted  the  page  for  a  more  certain  look  at  its 
lines,  when  these  words  met  his  eyes:  “  Be¬ 
lieve  me  there  is  but  one  absolute  vice — hypoc¬ 
risy  ;  there  is  but  one  honest  virtue — egoism.” 

The  sentiment  as  well  as  the  conviction  that 
he  knew  the  writer,  deepened  his  desire  to 
comprehend  the  cause  of  his  patient’s  suffering. 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


197 


Suddenly  he  realized  that  this  was  the  letter 
Stevna  had  commanded  him  to  read,  urging 
him  to  do  so  however  repugnant  it  might  be  to 
him  to  obtain  information  clandestinely.  She 
had  assured  him  that  the  interests  of  this  fair 
victim  necessitated  this  reading. 

The  hope  of  helping  her  decided  him.  He 
replaced  the  disarranged  pages  in  their  proper 
order,  and  read  with  ever  augmenting  interest 
what  follows: 

My  dear  Constance, 

A  duty  devolves  upon  me  from  which  every 
fibre  of  my  brain  is  shrinking  with  a  cowardice 
that  excites  my  own  contempt. 

I  know,  now,  there  is  no  escape  for  you  for  the 
consequences  of  my  folly,  unless  I  can  convert 
you  to  that  view  of  life  which  enables  men  to  con¬ 
template  all  the  tragic  possibilities  of  human  ex¬ 
istence  with  a  complacency  which  nothing  can 
disturb.  How  I  am  to  commend  this  view  to  you, 
or  induce  you  to  adopt  it,  is  a  problem  so  difficult 
of  solution  that  I  attack  its  intricacy  with  the 
greatest  reluctance,  and  only  because  the  reports 


198 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


made  to  me  by  our  mutual  friend,  the  Duchess, 
have  convinced  me  that  I  must  assume  the  re¬ 
sponsibilities  of  the  attempt,  however  repulsive 
the  task  may  be  to  me,  or  however  crushing1  it 
may  be  to  you. 

I  am  going  to  tell  you  the  truth.  What  the 
poet  calls  love  is,  to  the  practical  philosopher, 
the  most  fatal  folly  that  entices  or  deludes  man¬ 
kind. 

Love  that  is  lavished  with  uncompromising  de¬ 
votion  upon  self,  is  the  sole  affection  that  does  not 
beget  laughter  in  the  wise. 

This  assertion  shocks  you. 

Before  I  finish  I  shall  cut  you  to  the  heart’s  core. 

Egoism  is  the  religion  of  my  life.  It  is  the 
hidden  and  unconfessed  creed  of  every  one  else. 
There  is  not  a  political  or  ecclesiastical  institution 
that  is  not  secretly  instigated  by  self-interest  and 
self-love  alone.  Patriotism,  piety,  even  philan- 
throp}''  are  but  magniloquent  words  of  self-wor¬ 
ship.  Each  man  loves  his  country  because  it  is 
his.  Each  adores  the  God,  and  believes  in  the 
sect,  which  is  associated  with  his  own  particular 
mental  limitations.  Every  act  of  charity  is  a 
deed  that  is  delightful  because  it  exalts,  by  a  sen¬ 
timental  delusion,  self-esteem.  In  a  word  self- 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


199 


worship  is  the  only  real  worship  of  the  world, 
although  the  popular  form  of  this  worship,  called 
Christianity,  is  the  most  farcical  fraud  that  has 
ever  been  perpetrated  upon  that  monster  called 
the  mass,  “an  ass  that  loves  to  be  deceived  and 
is  seldom  disappointed.  ’  ’ 

Don't  be  horrified,  my  child,  at  this  unrestrained 
statement  of  the  truth.  Try  to  sever  all  associa¬ 
tion  with  this  monster  and  your  eyes  will  be 
opened.  You  will  see,  then,  that  while  Christian 
institutions  profess  to  adore  a  divinity  that  re¬ 
bukes  selfishness,  as  the  sin  of  sins,  they  are 
really  devoted  to  self  with  a  craft,  and  passion,  as 
amusing  to  the  cynic  as  it  is  profitable  to  the 
charlatan.  They  are  guilty  of  a  system  of  false 
pretense,  which,  to  the  fastidious  taste  of  a  true 
philosopher,  is  as  repulsive  as  a  vile  odor  to  the 
dainty  nostrils  of  une  grande  dame .  Believe  me, 
there  is  but  one  absolute  vice — hypocrisy.  There 
is  but  one  honest  virtue — egoism. 

The  one  dearest  aim  of  nature  is  evidently  to 
differentiate,  high  from  low,  little  from  small, 
great  from  insignificant,  and  yet  all  these  ranks 
exist  only  in  the  reasoning  consciousness  of  man. 
A  fly  may  torture  a  saint  into  profanity,  may  de¬ 
stroy,  with  its  useless  buzz  and  irritating  bite, 


200 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


the  sublimest  flight  of  the  poet’s  fancy,  or  the 
subtlest  analysis  of  the  philosopher’s  thought. 

To  nature,  that  fly,  which  is  only  a  maggot 
with  wings,  is  the  equal,  and  under  certain  condi¬ 
tions,  the  superior  of  the  highest  type  of  man. 

Nature’s  differentiation  is  accomplished  by  the 
desire  she  implants  in  each  creature  to  preserve 
and  exalt  itself.  In  every  form  of  animation  the 
mainspring  of  its  existence,  and  its  development, 
is  love  of  self,  and  the  ambition  to  secure  the 
supremacy  with  that  self  over  all  other  selves. 

You  are  wondering  why  I  say  all  this  to  you 
now.  You  will  learn  presently,  but  first  let  me 
briefly  show  you  that  the  philosophy  of  egoism  is 
.the  absolute  opposite  of  the  folly  of  egotism. 

Egotism  is  simply  self  assertion.  It  implies 
bad  manners,  and  every  folly  which  can  possibly 
be  induced  by  vanity,  which  is  the  father  of  every 
vice.  It  is  the  vicious  counterfeit  of  the  virtue  of 
egoism.  It  admires  but  never  masters  self.  Its 
religion  is  self-respect,  self-improvement,  self 
emaciation.  Egoism  is  akin  to  the  best  form  of  * 
stoicism.  It  has  no  affinity  whatever  with  sen¬ 
sualism,  or  any  other  system  of  ideas  which  sacri¬ 
fices  development  to  delight — will  to  wantonness. 
With  this  explanation  of  the  creed,  which  is  the 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


201 


key  to  my  character,  you  may  be  able  to  under¬ 
stand  why  I  have  been  and  must  continue  to  be 
cruel  to  you.  Perhaps,  too,  you  will  perceive  that 
I  inflict  an  immeasurable  misery  upon  myself, 
and  that  I  do  it  because  I  realize  that  the  integrity 
of  my  own  identity  necessitates  this  relentless 
course. 

Now  then  to  descend  from  philosophy  to  facts. 

Precisely  three  years  ago,  you  and  I  started  on 
a  bridal  trip.  What  a  glorious  May  day  it  was  ! 
What  a  contrast  to  this  on  which  I  banish  forever 
the  most  precious  but  perilous  delight  of  life ! 
What  a  vast  desolation  now  !  What  a  boundless 
exultation  then  !  At  that  hour  I  seemed  to  own 
earth,  heaven,  and  all  they  held  and  meant.  To¬ 
day  that  seductive  seeming  has  passed  away, 
leaving  me  possessor  of  nothing  but  myself.  The 
knowledge  of  that  possession,  however,  is  better, 
even  in  all  its  present  bitterness,  than  the  sorcery 
of  that  sw^eet  illusion  of  one  year  ago.  I  recall 
that  past  now,  to  make  the  pain  of  this  present 
more  acute.  The  more  cruelly  these  pangs  cut 
me  to  the  quick  the  more  surely  shall  I  be  de¬ 
livered  from  all  touch  of  that  annihilating  lie 
called  love.  On  the  first  of  May  1870,  I  had 
gained  complete  possession  of  the  one  woman  who 


202 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


could  thrill  me  with  a  desire  that  stung  into  ac¬ 
tivity  all  the  passionate  pulses  of  my  egoistic 
being.  The  sight,  sound,  touch  of  you,  seemed 
to  convert  me  into  a  God,  gifting  me  -with  a  sense 
of  power  as  vast  as  the  potence,  that  poises  and 
directs  the  stars.  The  pride  I  experienced  in  pos¬ 
sessing  you,  transcended,  in  triumphal  joy,  any 
which  a  Caesar  could  have  felt  in  entering  Rome 
with  the  captured  kings  of  a  hundred  nations  in 
his  train.  I  had  met  and  won,  what  I  once  be¬ 
lieved  was  merely  a  sentimental  fiction  :  namely, 
a  spotless  innocence.  I  had  attained  to  what  I 
would  have  sworn,  once,  was  the  impossible. 
The  immaculate  was  mine  !  A  mind  most  glori¬ 
ous.  A  heart  most  pure.  A  body  superbly  per¬ 
fect.  A  face  celestial.  Eyes  flooded  with  mystic 
illuminations  which  stirred  the  soul  into  exulta¬ 
tions  most  unearthly.  Lips  whose  sweet  seduc¬ 
tive  curves  enraptured  all  the  sense.  Lips  loaded 
with  an  endless  wealth  of  tenderness  and  mirth, 
on  whose  provoking  lines  played  an  archness  as 
artless  as  an  angel’s,  prophesying  such  infinite 
possibilities  of  naive  and  noble  passion  that  they 
set  every  globule  of  the  blood  aflame;  and  yet 
lips  revealing  an  innocence  so  sacred  and  supreme, 
that  they  awed  and  ruled  the  very  tempest  which 
that  magic  mouth  aroused 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


203 


All  this  glory,  throbbing  with  the  magnificent 
vigor  of  youth  and  enwrapped  in  the  glamour  of  a 
divine  virginity;  all  this  exquisite  beauty,  which 
the  wealth  of  the  world  could  not  buy,  nor  the 
wars  of  the  ages  win — all  this  priceless  treasure 
so  unattainable  to  others,  belonged  to  me — was 
mine — my  very  own. 

Great  God ! — The  thought  of  it  almost  over- 
conies  me  now ! 

For  a  year  I  fled,  with  my  Eden,  here  and  there 
and  everywhere,  pursued  by  a  horrible  phantom, 
by  a  tormenting  fear  of  losing  what  I  prized  with 
a  passion  so  absorbing  and  intense.  The  black 
uncertainty  of  the  future  shadowed  the  gorgeous 
sunshine  of  those  fleeting  hours. 

No  man  ever  knew  two  years  so  joyous  sad— - 
so  bitter  sweet — so  blissfully  agonizing — as  those 
first  great  years  when  we  swept  through  the 
world  like  two  free  birds,  speeding  wherever  fancy 
beckoned,  carried  by  our  own  caprice  from  the 
rugged  highlands  of  Scotland  to  the  beautiful  in¬ 
tervales  of  the  Danube — from  the  glaciers  of  the 
Chamounix  to  the  scorching  sands  of  Africa — from 
the  barren  peaks  of  Norway  to  the  fertile  plains  of 
Spain — from  the  dreamy  shores  of  the  Caspian 
to  the  storm-clad  coast  of  the  Baltic — from  the 


204 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


languorous  wine  farms  of  fair  Italy  to  the  nerve 
stinging  steeps  of  Siberian  Mines — from  the 
palaces  of  living  Emperors  to  the  catacombs  of 
ancient  kings — from  the  meeting  house  of  the 
puritan  to  the  mosque  of  the  sensuous  Turk — from 
the  song-filled  cathedrals  of  Christian  Europe  to 
the  solemn  silence  of  the  Egyptian  temples,  which 
await — in  the  gloomy  grandeur  of  a  long  tried 
hope — that  resurrection  of  the  dead  which  their 
priests  were  wont  to  prophesy  so  positively  to  the 
Pharaohs,  whose  mummies  lie,  swathed  in  spicy 
cerements,  within  their  tombs. 

Ah  !  wThat  years  of  sensuous  joy  and  intellectual 
delight !  Tasting  every  pleasure — studying  every 
theme  !  Sense  and  mind  equally  alert  to  enjoy  or 
to  learn.  Absorbing  history  amidst  historic 
scenes.  Gratifying  every  wholesome  appetite 
with  the  fruit  of  every  known  clime.  Living  all 
we  dreamed — dreaming  all  we  lived.  Testing 
and  analyzing  life  at  every  point  at  which  its 
myriad  pulses  appeared  upon  the  surface  of  the 
social  form.  Seeking  the  solution  of  the  mighty 
riddle  both  from  nature  and  from  man.  Fearing 
nothing — daring  all.  Eagerly  pursuing  knowl¬ 
edge  in  the  sanctum  of  the  saint,  or  the  slum  of 
the  revolting  sinner — in  the  halls  of  wealth  and 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


205 


idleness,  or  in  the  lowly  homes  where  labor  never 
ends, — in  the  palaces  of  priestcraft,  or  the  purlieus 
of  crime. 

Two  years  so  God-like — yet  so  human — that 
their  mere  memory  is  enough  to  set  me  mad  again 
with  the  reawakened  flames  of  their  myriad  de¬ 
sires. 

But  no !  To  surrender,  and  return  to  you, 
would  be  to  abdicate  forever,  all  the  sovereignty 
of  my  own  entity.  Another  taste  of  life  with  you 
would  thrill  like  a  potent  poison  through  every 
tissue  of  my  longing  nerves — would  steal  into  the 
subtlest  recesses  of  my  person — paralyzing  all  the 
vigor  of  my  own  volition — annihilating  all  the 
substance  of  my  inmost  self ! 

Two  years  passed.  We  returned  to  Paris,  and 
hid  our  happiness  in  the  unpretentious  villa, 
where  j’ou  are  waiting  for  me,  now. 

We  had  seen  nearly  all  that  was  worth  seeing 
in  this  world.  Little  remained  that  we  might 
care  to  consider,  except  the  unknown  within  our 
selves.  It  seemed  as  though  we  had  become  in¬ 
timately  acquainted  with  every  one  but  each  other. 
A  new  continent  was  to  be  explored,  and  all  our 
future  incursions  were  to  occur  within  the  realm 
of  each  other’s  consciousness.  At  last,  we  were  to 


206 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


roam,  at  pleasure  through  each  other’s  hearts, 
and  trail  the  intricacies  and  bjways  of  the  valves 
and  plains  and  chasms  in  each  other’s  character. 
We  had  been  so  busy  living,  and  learning  of  other 
lives,  that  life,  and  the  meaning  of  its  mystery, 
had  escaped  us.  At  the  Passy  villa  we  were, 
finally,  cut  off  from  all  creation  but  ourselves, 
and  fatally  forced,  by  our  voluntary  exile  from 
the  world,  to  face  and  find  each  other  out.  I  be¬ 
lieved  that  none  but  eagles  could  endure  utter 
isolation,  and  they,  only,  because  they  live  in  the 
unfettered  freedom  of  the  upper  air.  Separation 
from  society — I  said  to  myself— is  the  severest 
test  to  which  lovers  can  submit.  When  I  took 
the  house  in  the  Rue  de  la  Faizanverie,  I  felt  sure 
that  a  few  months,  weeks,  days  perhaps,  would 
tire  out  our  joy — would  reveal  the  finiteness  of 
each  other’s  knowledge — the  littleness  of  each 
other’s  life — the  minuteness  of  each  other’s  mind 
— the  paucity  of  each  other’s  personality — the 
petty  limitations  of  each  other’s  love. 

I,  now,  confess  I  caged  you  at  the  villa  confi¬ 
dent  that  the  time  had  now  come  to  loosen  the 
ties  between  us.  Certain  that  before  long  we 
should  grow  weary  of  our  nest — gradually  become 
bored — then  irritated — then  rebellious — and,  at 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


2  07 


last,  so  thoroughly  satiated  with  each  other’s 
society  that  we  should  summon  the  courage  to  be 
frank,  and  set  each  other  free — without  regret — 
without  scandal — without  a  spasm,  except  of  hap¬ 
piness  in  the  new  found  liberty  to  live  apart. 

I  thought  I  had  exhausted  all  the  resources  of 
your  nature.  Long  as  I  had  known — much  as  I 
had  seen  you — I  discovered  that  I  scarcely  com¬ 
prehended  you  at  all.  Seclusion  developed  new 
traits — wonderful  powers. 

While  we  were  flitting,  you  revealed  only  a  de¬ 
lightful  capacity  for  enjoyment,  a  ravishing 
faculty  for  appreciating  and  responding  to  all  the 
poetic  and  philosophic  suggestions  of  the  scenes 
through  which  we  passed.  The  moment  we 
alighted  upon  one  particular  spot  to  stay,  you 
began  to  build  a  nest  more  novel,  more  fascina¬ 
ting,  and  more  bewilderingly  beautiful,  than  any 
other  spot  on  earth.  Every  day  brought  a  new 
revelation  of  the  inexhaustible  charm  of  your 
character. 

While  traveling,  only  your  judicial  and  critical 
talent  was  displayed,  but  once  permanently  fixed 
in  a  house — which  you  called  your  home — and  the 
word  seemed  to  endow  you  with  a  vigor  and  ac¬ 
tivity  which  were  simply  astounding.  Your  crea- 


208 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


tive  genius,  then,  asserted  itself,  in every  direction 
that  adds  to  the  beauty,  interest'  or  enjoyment 
of  home.  Music,  painting,  pcetry,  cookery — it 
did  not  matter  which  j^ou  undertook — you  proved 
your  prowess,  showing  yourself  an  adept  in  the 
kitchen  as  well  as  the  salon  and  the  study. 

I  never  left  you,  for  an  hour,  that  I  was  not 
greeted  upon  my  return  with  some  new  creation 
revealing  either  the  insight  of  a  sybil — the  inspir¬ 
ation  of  an  artist — or  the  betwitching  home  sense 
of  an  enthusiastic  housewife.  At  the  end  of  the 
first  month,  I  began  to  realize  that  every  instant 
spent  apart  from  you  wras  an  annoyance  to  me. 
Strange  to  say,  I  was  fearfully  bored  everywhere 
but  in  my  own  home.  Before  the  second  month 
had  passed  I  knew  you  were  becoming  an  imper¬ 
ious  necessity  to  me.  I  seemed  to  live  only  in? 
by,  through  and  for  you.  When  three  months 
had  gone  all  self-deception  ceased.  I  saw  for  the 
first  time,  clearly,  convincingly,  that  you  were 
no  longer  the  object  of  my  desires  but  of  my  de¬ 
votion.  A  strange  and  terrible  reversal  had 
slowly  and  insidiously  occurred  in  the  attitude  of 
my  entity  toward  yours.  During  the  earlier 
time  of  oil:  companionship  you  had  been  but  the 
means  of  conferring  all  sorts  of  physical  and  in- 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


209 


tellectual  delights  upon  me.  Three  months  at 
home  had  completely  changed  all  this.  I  no  lon¬ 
ger  sought  you  as  the  servant  of  my  selfishness, 
but  as  the  mistress  of  my  soul. 

Once  you  had  been  to  me  merely  a  precious 
possession — a  treasure  all  my  own.  By  some 
magic,  whose  subtlety  had  evaded  my  perception, 
I  suddenly  found  myself  no  longer  the  winner 
and  owner  but  the  worshiper  and  slave.  The 
tumult  this  conviction  aroused  within  me  passes 
all  description.  You  may  partly  conceive  of  the 
meaning  of  this  discovery  to  one  of  raj'-  temper¬ 
ament  and  birth,  when  you  learn — what  you 
probably  never  suspected — that  I  am  a  member  of 
one  of  the  proudest  Imperial  families  in  Europe  ; 
that  if  I  live  long  enough  I  may  be  called  upon  to 
accept  the  responsibilities  and  wield  the  power  of 
of  a  throne.  Yet,  I,  whose  royal  blood  had  ruled 
a  continent,  I  had  become  the  mere  property,  the 
willing  serf  of  a  brilliant  little  plebian — a  gifted 
Americane — a  child,  almost,  in  years — whom  I 
had  stolen  from  her  school  !  The  idea  was  pre¬ 
posterous,  but  the  reality  was  positive,  unim¬ 
peachable,  not  to  be  denied.  At  first  I  scouted 
such  a  possibility.  At  first  I  was  forced  to 
acknowledge  the  actuality. 


210 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


From  the  moment  I  knew  that  this  was  abso¬ 
lutely  the  truth,  there  arose  a  struggle  between 
my  will  and  its  worship  that  was  diabolic  in  its 
energy.  The  effort  to  resist  your  seductions,  and 
rescue  myself  from  the  enchantment  of  your  per¬ 
sonal  influence,  made  me  almost  insane.  I  have 
always  been  proud  of  my  self-mastery.  I  once 
imagined  that  I  possessed  the  faculty  of  suppress¬ 
ing  the  expression  of  any  emotion,  however 
strong. 

The  last  month  with  you  tested  my  ability  to 
mask  misery,  with  a  smile  to  an  extent  I  never 
supposed  possible.  Only  once  did  I  betray  any 
sign  of  the  battle  within  me.  I  shall  never 
forget  that  occasion.  You  had  just  sung  to  me  a 
song  which  you  had  written  and  composed.  It 
celebrated  the  agony  of  the  Magdalen  at  the  tomb 
of  the  Christ.  Its  beauty  entranced,  while  its 
truth  tortured  me.  Its  expression  of  despair 
seemed  the  cry  of  my  own  lost  identity,  and 
awoke  such  an  infinity  of  anguish  within  me  that, 
for  a  moment,  I  was  dazed. 

As  you  finished  the  song,  you  turned  and  saw 
something  in  my  face  that  frightened  you.  You 
suddenly  threw  yourself  upon  my  breast  and 
wound  your  arms  about  my  neck,  crying,  with  a 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


21 1 


terror  full  of  tenderness  :  “  Oil  my  darling!  what 
is  it  ?  Wh}^  do  you  stare  so  strangely  ?  ’  ’ 

That  cry,  those  winding  limbs,  that  heaving 
bosom,  so  heavy-laden  with  passionate  love, 
overcame  me.  I  was  suffocated.  I  felt  bound  by 
bonds  I  was  too  abject  to  attempt  to  break. 

In  a  moment  of  overpowering  revolt  I  dashed 
you  from  me.  You  fell  to  the  floor  with  a  look  of 
grieved  amazement  upon  your  face,  so  pathetic 
that  it  completely  unmanned  me.  In  an  instant  I 
had  raised  and  placed  you  upon  the  lounge — had 
fallen  at  your  feet — was  weeping  upon  your 
breast. 

It  was  the  first  time  I  had  ever  caused  you  a 
single  instant’s  pain.  The  act  inspired  ire  with 
horror — crushed  me  with  shame — overcame  me 
with  grief  and  forced  tears — yes  actually  forces 
tears  from  my  eyes — the  eyes  of  a  man  who  would 
have  sworn  that  nothing  could  have  ever  made 
him  weep  again. 

You  were  fearfully  startled.  You  could  not 
understand,  but  you  lost  all  sense  of  my  brutality 
in  your  misery  at  my  condition.  In  less  than  a 
minute  I  had  recovered  my  self-possession,  but  it 
was  many  hours  before  I  could  soothe  your  fears 
or  partially  laugh  away  your  sorrow.  When  at 


212 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


last  you  slept,  and  lay  with  the  blessed  peace  of 
oblivion  upon  your  face,  I  stole  from  the  house 
and  wandered  into  the  darkest  corners  of  the 
‘  *  Bois’  ’  overwhelmed  with  the  consciousness  of 
my  own  slavish  condition.  Long  hours  of  self- 
counsel,  convinced  me  there  was  but  one  of  two 
things  to  do.  I  must  either  murder  or  flee  from 
you — bury  or  banish  you,  forever,  from  my  life. 

I  decided  to  do  the  latter.  I  foolishly  fancied 
that  absence  might  cure  me  of  my  disease  and 
enable  me  to  return,  some  day,  to  renew  the  joys, 
without  fear  of  the  dangers,  which  our  glorious 
intercourse  contained.  With  the  resolution  to 
leave  you  came  a  longing  for  one  last  taste  of  life 
with  you.  I  determined  that  we  should  have  one 
more  week  together  and  that  it  should  be  the 
grand  climax  of  our  existence. 

With  a  fiendish  fervor  I  planned  the  programme 
of  those  final  days. 

What  a  week  it  proved !  I  abandoned  myself 
to  the  leading  of  n^  love,  with  the  recklessness 
of  a  man  who  knew  that  this  was  to  be  the  end  of 
the  world  to  him.  What  vibrations  of  sense — 
what  inspirations  of  mind — what  supreme  agita¬ 
tion  of  soul  !  I  discovered,  in  myself,  a  genius 
for  enjojmient  that  was  a  revelation.  I  surren- 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


213 


dfcred  to  it  absolutely  and  revelled  in  the  absorb- 
tion  of  all  my  anima  by  you.  Great  God  !  how  I 
adore  you! 

The  slavery  of  a  great  love  is  the  sublimes! 
luxury  of  life.  But  it  is  a  luxury  that  is  easily 
converted  into  a  necessity,  and  then  one ’s  identity 
is  destroyed  forever.  The  Heaven  of  hashish  is 
sheol  itself,  compared  with  the  intoxication  of 
self-annihilation  which  that  much  used,  but  little 
understood  vrord,  implies. 

The  grandest  excitement  of  the  senses  that  the 
lustiest  passion  can  produce,  is  a  pigmy  exper¬ 
ience  when  contrasted  with  that  elementally 
opposite  state  of  consciousness — that  persistent 
inebriety  of  the  being — that  complete  debauchery 
of  the  spirit — that  never  ending  orgie  of  the 
essence— called  love. 

With  what  an  infamous  velocity  that  marvel¬ 
ous  week  disappeared  !  The  last  hour  arrived 
before  I  had  time  to  realize  or  comprehend  the 
ineffable  splendor  of  the  first.  Ah  !  that  final  day 
and  night! 

So  long  as  either  of  us  possesses  the  flimsiest 
remnant  of  a  mind,  the  memory  of  the  15th,  of 
July  1867,  will  remain  to  amaze  and  thrill  us. 

The  end  came. 


214 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


At  dawn  on  the  morning  of  the  16th  of  July,  I 
looked  upon  you  for  the  last  time.  You  lay, 
half  naked,  with  the  awesome  repose  of  a  happy 
innocence  upon  your  face.  I  pressed  a  parting 
kiss  upon  your  forehead.  You  turned  and  mur¬ 
mured  in  your  dreams  with  a  music  which  will 
haunt  my  ears  forever,  these  simple,  silly  words : 
“Yes  dear,  yours! — all  yours!” 

I  turned  and  fled.  Not  a  tear  in  my  eye.  My 
skin  cold  as  ice,  but  all  the  inner  membranes  of 
my  body  dry  as  parchment.  Inwardly  I  was  con¬ 
sumed  with  the  heat  of  hell.  I  was  strangled.  It 
seemed  as  though  invisible  fingers  of  red  hot  steel 
held  me  by  the  throat,  with  a  touch  as  firm  as 
flint  and  as  stinging  as  the  bite  of  an  asp.  The 
extremity  of  the  physical  pain  was  a  mercy  to 
to  me.  I  blessed  the  partial  effacement  it  occa¬ 
sioned  of  the  full  meaning  of  that  last  moment. 
If  I  had  been  the  most  infamous  criminal  in 
history  the  excruciating  anguish  of  that  depart¬ 
ure  would  have  amply  punished  me  for  all  my 
sins.  I  passed  out  of  that  paradise  like  a  phan¬ 
tom.  I  *seemed,  to  myself,  a  ghost.  I  did  not 
walk,  I  glided  away.  The  silence  was  that  of  a 
sepulchre.  I  could  not  hear  my  own  footfalls. 
The  doors  I  opened  and  closed  were  noiseless. 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


215 


Everything*  seemed  muffled.  Nature  appeared  to 
hold  her  breath.  I  would  have  given  an  eternal 
existence  to  scream  but  I  knew  that  if  you 
wakened  and  uttered  one  retaining  word  my  power 
to  resist  would  have  been  paralyzed — that  my 
will  would  be  eternally  lost  in  3rours. 

The  next  two  months  are  a  blank  to  me.  I  dis¬ 
covered  later  that  I  had  gone  like  a  man  in  a 
trance  to  the  nurse  of  my  infancy,  to  the  cottage 
of  my  foster-mother,  a  peasant  who  lived  a 
thousand  miles  from  Paris.  From  the  time  her 
motherly  arms  embraced  me  I  became  unconscious. 
Fever  followed,  and  I  did  not  recover  mind  or 
memory  until  autumn  was  well  advanced. 

I  will  not  dwell  upon  the  convalescence,  or  the 
return  of  the  memory  that  recreated  my  desire — 
and  fear — of  you.  I  have  said  enough  to  prove 
that  if  I  have  been  cruel  to  you  I  have  been 
equally  cruel  to  myself. 

Before  permitting  myself  to  enjoy  that  last 
glorious  week  with  you,  I  had  seen  our  dear  friend 
Diane  and  confided  to  her  my  resolve.  You  know 
her  unquestioning  devotion  to  me.  She  promised, 
with  streaming  eyes,  to  obey  me  implicitly.  It 
was  to  her  I  entrusted  the  delicate  and  difficult 
task  of  explaining  my  mysterious  departure,  and 


216 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


of  gradually  loosening  the  ties  that  had  grown  so 
strong  between  us. 

On  the  afternoon  of  the  16th  of  July,  she  was 
to  call  upon  you,  and  say  that  I  had  been  sum¬ 
moned  away  on  business  of  the  utmost  importance; 
that  I  had  not  the  courage  to  bid  you  farewell; 
that  affairs  which  could  not  be  explained,  made  it 
impossible  for  us  to  communicate  except  through 
the  Duchess.  I  know,  from  her,  with  what  frantic 
grief  you  received  this  news.  I  know,  from  her, 
with  what  deathless  faith  you  still  await  my 
return.  It  is  all  too  frightful  to  endure.  I  will 
keep  you  in  suspense  no  longer.  Know,  then, 
first — that  every  letter  you  have  sent  me  through 
Diane  remains  unopened.  I  have  not  dared  to 
read  them.  I  feared  their  influence  as  a  drunkard 
fears  the  wine  that  is  his  destruction,  and  that  he 
cannot  resist.  I  have  known  only  too  well,  that 
a  single  taste  of  intercourse  with  you,  even  in  the 
form  of  a  letter,  would  cause  a  relapse  into  love 
which  would  end  completely  all  my  self-control. 
For  this  reason  I  have  overcome  the  temptation 
to  take  one  glance  at  your  communications. 
They  will  be  returned  to  you  in  a  package  which 
will  be  confided  to  the  care  of  Pouska,  whom  you 
will  remember  as  our  courier  while  we  were 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


2 17 

travelling.  He  is  my  foster-brother,  and  he  it 
was  who  guided  me,  to  the  hamlet  of  his  mother, 
the  day  I  fled  from  you.  The  package,  wdiich  he 
has  promised  to  deliver  to  you,  alone  contains  a 
certificate  of  my  death,  a  document  which  will 
free  you  socially,  and  leave  you  at  liberty  to 
secure  peace  and  happiness  with  some  one  more 
clear  of  worldly  fetters  than  I,  and  more  worthy 
of  the  privilege  of  becoming  your  slave. 

You  will  also  find  in  this  package  my  last  will, 
and  thus  learn  that  you  are  the  heiress  of  three 
million  francs. 

Who  I  really  am  you  have  never  known,  and 
can  never  know.  When  you  receive  this  I  shall 
already  be  well  advanced  on  my  way  to  a  land 
you  are  least  likely  to  think  of  visiting.  It  is 
useless  for  you  to  endeavor  to  trace  me,  and  if 
you  ever  loved  me,  or  if  yon  care  to  save  your¬ 
self  from  complete  social  ruin — even  earthly  ex¬ 
istence,  perhaps — do  not  hesitate  to  accept  the 
perfect  system  of  deceptions  by  which  I  have 
arranged  to  protect  our  past,  and  to  provide  for 
your  future. 

Only  one  thing  more  remains  to  be  said.  I 
must  have  a  confession  which  you  may  not 


218 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


survive.  If  it  strikes  you  dead  at  once  it  may  be 
better  for  both  of  us.  However  merciless  it  may 
prove  to  you,  or  however  disgraceful  to  me, 
nothing  must  delay  this  confession  now. 

Constance,  there  is  nothing  that  tests  the 
stamina  of  my  will  so  remorselessly  as  this  ne¬ 
cessity,  which  I  now  face,  of  making  myself  con¬ 
temptible  to  you.  There  was  a  time  when  I 
would  rather  have  parted  with  life  than  have  lost 
the  flattering  distinction  of  being  the  sole  object 
of  your  devotion.  It  has  taken  months  of  absence 
from  you  to  enable  me,  even  now,  to  tear  myself 
from  that  place  in  your  heart  which  your  worship¬ 
ing  passion  once  assigned  me,  but  the  time  has 
come  when  I  must  do  this  without  flinching,  and 
I  swear  to  you  that  it  is  the  last  unselfish  act  of 
which  I  shall  ever  again  be  guilty. 

From  the  first  moment  that  I  met  you  I  have 
deceived  you. 

Our  marriage  was  a  farce.  It  was  morganat¬ 
ic,  and  of  no  legal  value  whatever. 

You  have  never  been — can  never  be,  my  wife. 

I  am  trembling  like  a  craven. 

I  did  not  know  till  now  that  the  curse  of 
cowardice  rested  on  the  race  of  the  man  whom 
you  have  known,  only,  as  L,EO  de  Vaugars. 

May  i st,  1868. 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


219 


The  sight  of  that  signature  produced  a  pecul- 
iar  effect  upon  Lefort.  He  stared  at  it  in  a 
semi-stupor,  for  at  least  one  minute,  stunned 
by  the  suspicion  which  struck  his  mind.  As 
this  suspicion  gradually  increased,  amazement, 
for  a  moment,  outran  every  other  emotion. 
When  the  full  certainty  of  the  truth  was  de¬ 
veloped  he  sprang  from  his  chair — exclaiming, 
with  an  intense  and  terrible  rage:  “  It  is!  It 
must  be!  Teo!  Prince  Vakoff!  that  arch 
fiend;  that  modern  Lucifer!  ” 

Crushing  the  letter  in  his  hand,  he  dashed  it 
furiously  upon  the  table,  and,  striding  to  the 
side  of  the  bed,  he  gazed  at  the  young  mother 
with  emotions  no  pen  can  express. 

The  sight  of  that  chaste  and  noble  face 
deeply  moved  him.  His  countenance,  which, 
at  first,  was  disfigured  by  a  frown  of  almost 
brutal  ferocit3%  gradually  lost  its  look  of  hate. 
The  high-bred  beauty  of  the  patient,  with  its 
pathetic  unconsciousness  and  grace,  cast  a  spell 


220 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


upon  the  passionate  man.  Presently  he  mut¬ 
tered:  “  Another  life  wrecked  by  that  mon¬ 
ster!” 

An  expression  of  yearning  tenderness  suc¬ 
ceeded  his  savage  glance.  He  bent  over  the 
form  in  the  bed,  murmuring:  “  My  comrade! 
my  poor  little  comrade  in  despair!  From  this 
hour  my  very  life  is  yours.  I  will  scheme, 
struggle,  sin,  if  necessary  to  right  your  wrong. 
Ah !  I  will  never  desert  ou !  X  will  love  and 
cherish  you — as  surely  as  I  will  punish  him!  ” 

Tears  stood  in  his  eyes.  He  stooped  low, 
and  kissed  the  victim’s  forehead,  with  a  rever¬ 
ence  that  foretold  the  faithful  devotion  of  all 
the  years  to  come. 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


221 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  EAST  COMMAND. 

In  the  years  preceding  the  day  when  Lefort, 
responding  to  the  call  of  Father  Ambrose,  had 
hastened  to  the  villa  with  Clarisse,  his  interest 
in  life  had  been  little  more  than  that  which  a 
desire  for  achievement  occasions  in  an  ener¬ 
getic  mind.  Society  presented  certain  terrible 
problems  which  organized  wrong  seemed  to 
defy  him  to  solve.  This  defiance  had  given 
Lis  existence  its  chief  delight.  It  quickened 
his  innate  love  of  conquest.  To  wrest  from 
nature  the  secrets  which  she  most  carefully 
concealed;  to  pluck  out  the  heart  of  her  mys¬ 
tery,  and  expose  the  principles  that  underlay 


222 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


and  overrule  her  every  act;  to  discover  and 
use  her  own  powers  against  herself;  that  is,  to 
acquire  such  a  complete  command  of  her 
methods  that  he  could  force  her  to  rescue  from 
her  own  inevitableness,  the  victims  eternally 
provided  by  time  for  the  merciless  operation  of 
her  laws;  all  this  constituted  a  purpose  worthy 
of  his  will,  and  the  steadfast  pursuit  of  this 
aim  enabled  him  to  escape  the  ennui  and  dis¬ 
gust  which  the  inanity,  or  insanity,  of  society 
would  otherwise  have  brought  a  temperament 
as  impatient  of  pettiness,  or  wrong,  as  that  of 
this  sorrow-stricken  man. 

Only  twelve  hours  had  passed  since  he  had 
crossed  the  threshold  of  the  villa,  and  yet,  as 
the  light  of  the  new  dawn  stole  into  his  eyes, 
he  felt  as  though  he  was  commencing  a  new 
career  in  another  world. 

How  serve  this  unfortunate?  How  soften 
the  blow  which  he  felt  sure  would  assail  her 
when  she  returned  to  consciousness  ?  To  be 

t 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


223 


effectually  helpful  it  was  necessary  that  he 
should  learn  everything  possible  regarding  her 
antecedents,  and  the  events  that  led  up  to,  and 
caused  this  dangerous  crisis.  At  that  moment 
he  barely  knew  enough  to  understand  that  it 
was  the  sudden  realization  of  the  infamous 
wrong  which  had  been  done  her,  that  had 
thrown  her  supersensitive  organization  into 
such  an  exceptional  condition.  In  spite  of  the 
intense  and  long  continued  activity  of  his 
mind,  he  did  not  feel,  as  yet,  any  effect  from 
the  unceasing  strain  which  his  efforts  had  put 
upon  his  vitality.  The  discovery  of  Leo’s 
connection  with  the  case,  had  stung  into  the 
wildest  energy  every  faculty  he  possessed.  He 
was  resolved  to  know,  and  to  do,  all  in  his 
power  to  alleviate  the  cruelty  of  the  future  to 
this  afflicted  child,  and  also  to  leave  nothing  un¬ 
attempted  which  might  enable  him  to  adequately 
punish  the  crime  which  had  been  committed, 
by  the  man  whom  he,  evidently,  had  some 
powerful  reason  to  hate. 


224 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


So  eager  had  he  become  to  learn  all  the 
facts,  that  he  could  not  rest  an  instant,  until 
his  curiosity  had  been  partially  appeased.  Who 
could  most  speedily  impart  the  information  he 
desired?  Clarisse  might  know  all.  Would 
she  tell  what  she  knew  ?  He  decided  to  test 
her  at  once. 

He  was  about  to  seek  and  awake  the  sleep¬ 
ing  woman  when  he  remembered  that  he  had 
not  fully  carried  out  Stevna’s  directions  re¬ 
garding  Constance  and  Ambrose.  Curbing 
his  impatience,  he  made  a  final  examination  of 
the  physical  condition  of  the  young  mother, 
tenderly  bathed  and  rebandaged  her  feverish 
body,  and  then  endeavored  to  rouse  the  priest 
intending  to  seat  him  in  the  chair  at  the  side  of 
the  bed,  before  questioning  Clarisse. 

To  his  dismay,  he  found  the  father  inaccessi¬ 
ble  to  his  influence,  and  beyond  his  power  to 
impress.  He  had  relapsed  into  a  state  of  trance 
with  which  the  doctor  no  longer  felt  the 
courage  to  cope. 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


22  5 


Worried  and  perplexed,  Tefort  cudgeled 
his  brains  to  determine  how  he  should  deal 
with  this  new  dilemma. 

The  loss  of  his  hypnotic  command  of  the 
curate’s  organization,  was  not  only  a  surprise, 
but  also  a  cause  of  the  deepest  regret  to  him; 
for  it  prevented  the  exhibition  of  that  excep¬ 
tional  phenomena  which  Stevna  had  asked  him 
to  afford  Amelie,  and  Jacques,  the  opportunity 
to  examine.  He  had  counted  upon  the  per¬ 
sistence  of  his  power  over  the  priest,  to  demon¬ 
strate  to  his  companions  the  positive  existence 
of  a  new  and  vast  field  of  most  important  facts. 

While  striving  to  think  of  some  means  of  re¬ 
establishing  his  influence  over  Ambrose,  his 
tormenting  reflections  were  arrested  in  a  man¬ 
ner  that  once  more  filled  him  with  awe.  The 
whisper  which  a  few  hours  before  had  startled 
all  of  them,  again  reached  his  ears,  repeating 
the  very  words  which  had  ushered  in  that  ab¬ 
normal  state  of  unconscious  activity  through 
which  they  had  all  passed. 


226 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


‘  ‘  Nature  sides  not — and  slights  not.  ’  ’ 

Softly  but  clearly  the  sound  of  this  sentence 
broke  the  intense  stillness  of  the  hour.  Tefort 
stared  about  him,  wondering  no  longer  at  the 
assertion  of  the  phrase  but  at  the  mystery  sur¬ 
rounding  its  utterance.  As  he  turned  his  head 
he  saw  that  Ambrose  had  risen,  and  was  fa¬ 
cing  the  ghastly  gray  light  of  the  early  dawn. 
He  noticed  that  the  father’s  lips  were  trembling. 
Presently  their  aimless  motions  became  method¬ 
ical,  whispering:  “  Fear  not.  The  triumph 
of  love  is  at  hand.” 

Instantly,  the  scientist  perceived  that 
Ambrose  was  influenced  to  repeat  the  former 
phrases,  in  order  to  reveal  to  him  the  means 
which  had  been  employed  to  form  the  whispers 
which  had  first  been  heard.  He  saw,  at  last, 
that  while  the  father  was  lying  upon  the  floor 
with  the  chloroformed  cloth  upon  his  chin,  he 
had  passed  into  a  trance,  and  under  the  con¬ 
trol  of  the  power  then  operating. 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


227 


The  whole  proceeding  was  gradually  be¬ 
coming  distinct  to  the  surgeon’s  mind.  Bon¬ 
nard  was  the  wonderful  instrument  through 
which  this  entire  series  of  exotic  occurrences 
had  been  evolved.  This  conviction  relieved 
the  examiner’s  anxiety.  Through  the  priest — 
who  was  the  focal-physical  cause  of  the  pre¬ 
ceding  events  he  would  learn  the  course  he 
must  pursue,  in  order  to  secure,  from  the 
others,  some  sort  of  confirmation  of  this  un¬ 
paralleled  phenomena.  Humbly  seeking  direc¬ 
tions  from  the  unseen,  the  proud  materialist 
interrogated  the  senseless  machine  at  his  side. 

One  inquiry  was  sufficient.  The  mystic 
anima,  in  substantial  intimacy  with  the 
machine,  foresaw  all  he  sought,  and  supplied 
more  information  than  the  learned  scientist 
would  have  known  how  to  demand. 

“  Why  am  I  unable,  now,  to  control  the  or¬ 
ganization  of  Father  Ambrose  ?  ” 


228 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


This  query  awakened  the  full  activity  of  the 
priest’s  body.  The  whispering  ceased  and  the 
reply  issued  from  the  manikin’s  mouth,  in  a 
quiet  but  penetrating  tone. 

“Your  question  concerning  the  conception 
of  Christ,  reached  to  the  very  core  of  that 
aboriginal  error  which  has  misled  and  debased 
human  nature  for  ages.  An  error  so  radical 
that  it  has  been  almost  impossible  to  reach 
the  race  with  the  wholesome  ideals  essential 
for  its  grandest  evolution.  The  first  vulgar 
thought  that  was  associated  with  the  creative 
shrine — wherein  the  Inscrutable  performs  that 
miracle  of  miracles  which  peoples  the  universe 
with  sentient  creatures — that  first  indecent 
thought  was  the  primal  sin  of  prehistoric  times. 
It  inocculated  humanity  with  an  intellectual 
poison  which  gradually  ate  into  the  moral  sub¬ 
stance  of  mankind,  and  ultimately  caused  that 
decay  of  its  manhood  which  led  to  the  destruc¬ 
tion  of  the  grandest  civilization  which  has  ever 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


229 


existed  on  earth.  The  other  civilizations, 
which  were  evolved  later,  grew  out  of  the 
remnants  of  that  primitive  enlightenment 
which  was  scattered  by  the  revolt  of  nature  at 
the  desecration  of  her  most  vital  function,  but 
all  the  civilizations  which  succeeded,  were 
tainted  with  the  morbid  mental  virus  which 
first  corroded  the  race. 

‘  ‘The  mysteries  of  India  and  Egypt  preserved 
those  poisonous  ideas  of  sex  which  occasioned 
the  development  of  asceticism  and  sensualism, 
the  two  opposite,  and  equally  vicious,  forms  of 
that  disease  which  results  from  man’s  un¬ 
natural  views  of  nature  processes. 

“The  spirit  in  which  mankind  is  conceived  is 
of  fundamental  importance.  The  myster}^ 
thrown  about  the  sexual  act,  by  what  is  mis¬ 
called  religion,  has  engendered  all  sorts  of 
morbid  imaginations.  These  have  begotten 
base  ideas,  the  bred  therefrom  those  deadly  de¬ 
sires  which  have  so  degraded  the  sublimity  of 


230 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 

the  creative  act.  Rot  at  the  root  is  sure  rum  to 
the  fruit .  A  noble  humanity  must  be  nobly 
begotten.  The  great  truths,  to  be  revealed  by 
the  new  born,  will  completely  reverse  the  ec¬ 
clesiastical  and  social  views,  which  now  pre¬ 
vail  throughout  Christendom,  concerning  sex¬ 
ual  relations.  Within  a  century,  from  the 
time  when  the  terrible  but  glorious  life  of  this 
infant  shall  have  demonstrated  these  truths, 
adultery,  and  all  the  revolting  mental,  moral, 
and  physical  diseases  associated  with  it,  will 
have  passed  from  the  world  forever.  From 
that  time  the  evolution  of  the  race,  toward 
that  perfection  which  is  destined  to  endow  it 
with  omnipotence,  will  meet  with  no  barriers 
that  are  not  essential  and  helpful.  The  vast 
import  of  your  inquiry  struck  through  the  or¬ 
ganism  of  Ambrose  into  the  spiritual  world 
with  which  he  is  so  closely  allied,  and  re-estab¬ 
lished  the  ties  which  had  bound  him  to  us. 
From  that  moment  you  lost  your  rapport  with 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


231 


him,  and,  thenceforth,  his  cerebrations  became 
the  result  of  influence  from  the  intrinsic  world, 
instead  of  suggestions  from  the  extrinsic  world. 
The  maintenance  of  our  relatations  with  any 
zootic  organization  costs  us  a  far  greater  effort, 
and  a  much  deeper  suffering,  than  you  can 
conceive  of  at  present.  As  humanity  grows 
more  pure  and  humane,  the  pangs  we  endure, 
now,  in  our  endeavors  to  influence  its  eleva¬ 
tion,  will  pass  away.  Then  our  visitations 
will  become  more  frequent,  and  the  progress 
of  civilization  towards  spiritualization  will 
rapidly  increase. 

“The  time  has  come  for  us  to  retire  from  all 
abnormal  interference  with  the  normal  course 
of  events. 

“Note  well  what  follows,  for  these  are  the 
last  words  we  shall  be  able  to  convey  to  you, 
until  years  have  passed,  and  the  awful  catas- 
trophies  to  come  call  us  imperatively  to  your 
side. 


232 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


“First — for  the  immediate  present. 

“After  we  have  completed  this  communica¬ 
tion,  the  organization  of  Ambrose  will  be  re¬ 
passed  into  3T>ur  control,  that  you  may  fully 
carry  out  Stevna’s  directions.  To-morrow 
you  will  question  Clarisse,  and  she  will  tell 
you  much  that  will  add  to  your  astonishment, 
and  put  you  upon  your  guard. 

“All  that  you  discover  tending  to  confirm 
your  suspicions  of  the  identity  of  the  Satanic 
character,  who  is  the  self-sire  of  this  holy 
infant,  you  will  take  great  care  to  keep  per¬ 
sistently  to  3^ourself. 

“Now — concerning  the  future. 

“You  will  become  as  a  brother  to  this  mother, 
and  the  principal  guardian  of  her  child.  The 
infant’s  ph3rsical  welfare  is  in  3rour  hands — her 
spiritual  fate  is  ours.  You  will  use  every  in¬ 
fluence  to  keep  her  from  aii3r  contact  with  the 
teachings  of  established  religion.  Her  mind 
must  not  be  sophisticated  by  the  dogmatic 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


233 


falsities  which  so  easily  take  root  in  the  cere¬ 
bral  tissues  of  children. 

“You  will  prevail  upon  the  mother  to  give 
her  daughter  the  name  of  Sania — a  name 
which  signifies  sanity,  wholeness,  or  health. 
You  will  do  this,  because  her  off-spring  is  the 
divine  messenger  of  the  whole  to  each  and 
every  part,  and  is  born  into  earth  life  that  she 
may  unfold  to  mankind — in  daring  acts — that 
gospel  of  spiritual  freedom  which  ensures  ab¬ 
solute  physical  and  moral  health. 

‘  ‘  In  the  natural  order,  this  child  and  her 
mother  will  have  the  most  startling  and  event¬ 
ful  careers. 

‘  ‘  Your  part  is  to  watch  over  and  protect  them 
from  material  injury  but  under  no  circum¬ 
stances  must  you  attempt  to  interfere  with  any 
occurrence — however  appalling — that  bears 
upon  their  mental  or  emotional  life.  Passivity 
in  this  sphere,  will  often  be  extremely  painful, 
and  almost  impossible  to  you,  but  it  must  be 


234  FATHER  AMBROSE* 

constant  and  absolute,  no  matter  what  misun¬ 
derstandings,  or  separations,  it  may  tempora¬ 
rily  produce.” 

The  last  communication,  received  by  Lefort, 
was  delivered  in  a  clear  but  colorless  voice, 
and  with  a  mechanical  lack  of  expression 
which  was  entirely  unhuman.  While  this 
mere  vocal  telegraph  was  operating  the  doctor 
was  busy  recording  the  message  it  conveyed. 
As  speech  ceased  he  looked  up  anxious  to  ask 
further  information  regarding  Constance,  but 
the  change  which  the  appearance  of  the  priest 
was  undergoing,  banished  all  idea  of  further 
questioning. 

The  corpse-like  manikin  slowly  closed  its 
eyes.  Its  hands  fell  limply  to  its  sides.  Its 
head  hung  down  upon  its  chest.  A  shudder¬ 
ing  soon  vibrated  through  the  whole  of  its  or¬ 
ganization.  Presently  its  body  emitted  a 
peculiar,  pungent  odor,  like  the  fetid  perfume 
of  a  poisonous  flower.  This  grew  so  strong 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


235 


that  the  physician  fell  back  sickened.  A  few 
seconds  later  this  miasnaetic  breath  passed 
away,  and  was  succeeded  by  soft  waves  of  air, 
as  sweet  and  refreshing  as  a  summer  breeze 
blowing  over  the  new  mown  meadows  of  the 
valley.  Suddenly  a  perfume  as  pure  as  that 
of  a  lily  pervaded  the  room,  and  immediately 
an  exquisite  violet  light  enwrapped  the  whole 
person  of  the  priest,  whose  form  dilated  and 
Assumed  proportions  full  of  marvellous  majesty. 
Gradually  the  head  rose,  the  whole  body  grow¬ 
ing  into  a  grandeur  that  strangely  moved  the 
witness  of  this  transcendant  phenomena.  The 
tint  of  the  priest's  face  became  as  fair  and 
beautiful  as  that  of  a  child  in  all  the  glory  of 
perfect  health.  An  ineffably  tender  and  win¬ 
some  smile  appeared  upon  his  lips.  A  splendid 
placidity  crept  over  his  brows.  His  nostrils 
quivered  with  a  sensitivity  indescribably  divine 
— the  whole  countenance  glorified  with  a  grace 
surpassing  the  power  of  words  to  picture. 


2^6  FATHER  AMBROSE. 

The  eyes  slowly  opened,  and  as  their 
precious  light  shone  into  those  of  Lefort  he 
was  inundated  with  a  flood  of  emotions  as 
blessed  as  they  were  beyond  all  understanding. 
The  whole  soul  of  the  physician  seemed  to  ex¬ 
pand  into  a  serene  and  beatific  activity.  He 
lost  all  consciousness  of  physical  existence, 
experiencing,  at  last,  the  peace-poised  potence 
of  spiritual  being,  and  the  unmistakable  joy  of 
its  sublimated  life. 

The  gaze  of  those  wrondrous  eyes  deepened 
in  earnestness — became  awful,  yet  infinitely 
beneficient  in  their  power.  Finally  a  voice  as 
musical  and  thrilling  as  an  seolian  harp  wafted 
these  words  into  his  ears: 

“  Great-hearted  hater  of  wrong,  and  lover  of 

right !  Dauntless  mocker  of  lies  and  servant 
of  truth!  Scorner  of  base  strength,  and  tire¬ 
less  healer  of  helplessness!  To  thee  whose 
God-soul  hath  so  often  doubted  God’s  beings — 
to  thee  who  hath  so  mercilessly  denounced  the 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


237 


vain  sense-God  of  the  world — to  thee,  a  high 
priest  of  science,  is  granted  the  .sublime  glory 
of  guarding  the  earth-life  of  the  Archangel  of 
religious  liberty — the  consummating  Messiah 
of  the  cosmic  order. 

“  To  thee — I — the  all-lover,  all-sufferer,  con¬ 
fide  the  inmost  essence  of  my  entity — my  soul’s 
perfection — the  celestial  mate  of  my  eternal 
manhood — whom  I  have  dedicated  to  the  dark¬ 
ness,  of  the  death-life,  that  the  low  may  be 
lifted,  and  the  high  humbled — that  the  gentle 
may  become  the  strong — and  the  violent,  im¬ 
potent — that  the  vain  and  the  vulgar  may  be 
forever  bereft  of  vigor — and  that  nature  may 
be  restored  eternally  to  her  primitive  innocence 
in  the  heart  of  man. 

“  To  thee,  O!  brother  of  my  boundless  love, 
I  entrust  the  most  sacred  treasure  of  my  sub¬ 
stance.  On  thee  I  place  the  awful  responsi¬ 
bility  of  the  divinest  privilege. 

‘  ‘  Great  anguish  shall  conduct  my  beloved  to 


238 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


great  achievement.  Horrible  pangs  to  super¬ 
nal  perfections.  Torturing  throes  to  trans¬ 
cendent  triumphs. 

This  is  the  cross  of  crosses  which  we  bear 
once  more  that  humanity  may  come  into  its 
heritage  of  divinity — that  man  may  become 
eternally  the  consort  of  God.  O!  to  this  end 
cherish  and  adore  this  spiritual  treasure  of  the 
universe!  The  conversion  of  the  world  from 
a  cowardly  conventional  to  a  courageously  God¬ 
like  life,  depends  on  your  fidelity  to  my  all- 
loving  trust.  Heed,  and  hold  to  your  heart’s 
core  this  one  supreme  command: 

‘  ‘  Guard ,  but  O !  do  not  dare  to  guide.  ’  ’ 

Ambrose  kept  his  eyes  on  Tefort.  Reaching 

% 

back  he  found  automatically  the  back  of  an 
easy  chair  close  by  the  bed. 

Slowly  he  suffered  himself  to  drop  into  it, 
his  gaze  still  fixed  on  Tefort.  Reaching  out 
his  hand  he  clasped  that  of  the  senseless 
mother.  Next  his  eyelids  began  to  droop. 


\  ■ 

FATHER  AMBROSE.  239 

The  lips  again  moved.  As  if  from  a  distance 
the  words  echoed : 

*  ‘  Guard ,  but  do  not  dare  to  guide.  *  * 


240 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE  POLICE,  THE  PRIESTS,  THE  DOCTOR  AND 
THE  DEAD  HOUND. 

Endormation,  the  condition  usually  prompted 
by  the  master  magnetizer  on  his  subject, 
seemed  to  creep  over  the  curate  until  he  was 
completely  in  its  control.  Eefort  had  put  forth 
no  conscious  effort,  yet  he  knew  instinctively 
that  the  man,  apparently  asleep  in  the  easy 
chair,  would  wake  at  his  command  and  resume 
his  normal  condition.  The  mystic  anima  had 
relinquished  substantial  relation  with  the 
fleshly  envelope  and  transferred  the  power  of 
normal  resumption  to  the  doctor. 

At  this  moment  a  bell-peal  resounded 


FATHER  AMBROSE.  241 

through  the  villa  followed  by  some  reverber¬ 
ating  blows  on  the  outer  door. 

Tefort  hurried  to  the  window.  His  gaze 
encountered  a  small  body  of  men. 

The  uniform  of  the  police!  The  clerical 
santane!  What  might  this  mean?  Hurrying 
first  to  Lemaitre  he  unendormed  him  with  a 
touch  and  a  word.  Before  a  question  could  be 
put  this  command  was  rapidly  emitted: — 

“Wait!  Go  tend  the  mother.  Pay  no  heed 
to  the  priest.” 

Temaitre  was  drilled  by  the  habitudes  of  his 
calling.  He  instantly  and  without  question 
obeyed. 

Next  the  doctor  raised  his  sister  whose 
revived  oral  senses  received: — 

“No  questions.  Tend  the  child.”  What 
had  influenced  Lemaitre  influenced  her — she 
went.  Again  the  bell  clanged ;  again  the 
resounding  blows  from  the  outside. 

Rapidly  descending  the  stairs  the  doctor 
flung  the  door  wide  open. 


242  FATHER  AMBROSE. 

‘  ‘  What  is  it  ?  Why  this  damnable  noise  ? 
There  is  sickness  here.  ’  ’  A  Commissaire  de 
Police  stepped  forward. 

‘ ‘  If  there  was  nothing  more  than  sickness 
Doctor  Tefort  I’ll  regret  the  noise  and  soon 
release  you.  But  there  is  sin  as  well  as  sick¬ 
ness.  My  intrusion  is  necessary.” 

”  I  salute  you  M.  le  Commissaire  Veaurivard. 
JVous  ve?'rons.  We  shall  see.  Tieias\  Pere 

Villegant  and  Abbe  Lavegerie.  Are  you 
holy  Fathers  for  the  sin  or  for  the  sickness  ? 
The  holy  Fathers  only  shook  their  heads  and 
sighed.  At  this  instant  the  doctor’s  rapidly 
roving  eyes  fell  on  a  man  in  citizen’s  dress  who 
seemed  persistently  keeping  himself  in  the 
background.  The  doctor  .swallowed  a  mighty 
oath  and  muttered —  : 

‘  ‘  The  prologue  is  over.  The  drama  begins 
on  the  instant,”  and  the  devilish  ex-machine 
is  wanting  his  cue  to  speak.” 

All  this  was  but  a  thought  flash.  To  the 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


243 


little  crowd  he  merely  said:  “  Enter  gentle¬ 
men.  I  am  at  your  service.  ’  ’ 

Leading  the  w7ay  into  a  good  sized  room 
fitted  with  oak  and  leather  furniture  ;  doubt¬ 
less  the  dining-room  ;  he  indicated  the  chair  at 
head  of  the  table  to  the  Commissaire  who 
bowdng  took  possession  of  it.  His  men 
grouped  at  the  back.  The  clerical  gentlemen 
took  seats  on  the  right  and  left  of  the  legal 
functionary  and,  at  once,  the  proceedings 
assumed  that  air  of  ceremonial  importance  so 
dear  to  the  hearts  of  the  French  officials.  The 
citizen  who  had  been  the  corollary  of  the 
doctor’s  mutterings  had  lagged  behind,  closed 
the  street  door  and  remained  there,  where, 
however,  all  that  passed  in  the  dining-room 
was  completely  audible. 

“Doctor” — Began  the  guardian  of  public 
security — “  I  know  you  well  enough  to  put 
my  questions  rapidly  and  tersely  and  be  sure 
of  replies  which  are  in  compliment.  Your 
visit  here  is  ?” 


244 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


“  Professional.” 

44  Case  of?” 

44  Childbirth.” 

“  Father’s  name  ?” 

44  Doubtful.” 

44  Mother’s  name  ?  ” 

*  ‘  The  same.  ’  ’ 

4 4  Married  ?  ’  ’ 

An  instant’s  delay,  then: — 44  They  are  stran 
gers  to  me.  ’  ’ 

44  You  were  sent  for  by  ?  ” 

4  4  A  femme  de  chambre  as  it  seems.  ’  * 

44  Is  the  child  born  ?” 

44  Yes.” 

44  Healthy?” 

44  Yes — mind  marvelously  so.” 

‘‘The  mother?” 

44  Nous  veirons — We  shall  see  later.” 

4  4  Who  was  in  the  house  when  you  arrived?’ 
44  The  patient  and — a  priest.” 

There  was  a  general  movement. 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


‘  *  His  name  ?  ’  ’ 

“  Father  Ambrose  Bonnard.” 

“  What  was  he  doing  here  ?” 

‘  ‘  Would  M  le  Commissaire  mind  questioning 
the  Father  directly  ?’  ’ 

Veaurivaud  bit  his  pencil.  “  Se  fait — yes — 
Why  not.”  Turning  to  the  Abbe — “  To  you 
my  Father” — waving  his  hand  toward  the 
doctor — “Ask  what  you  will.”  Father  La- 
vigerie,  an  old  man,  apparently  the  embodi¬ 
ment  of  kindly  simplicity,  rose  and  .spoke  with 
a  voice  that  carried  in  its  tones  the  unusual 
flurry  of 'his  good  old  heart. 

‘  ‘  Monsieur  Lefort  we  are  here  because  an 
accusation  of  the  most  hideous,  the  most 
awful  nature  has  been  brought  against  a 
member  of  our  Holy  Church.  It  is  that  our 
well-beloved  and  trusted  Father  Ambrose  has 
been  seen  committing  the  vile  and  filthy  act  !” 

“What  act?” — asked  the  doctor.  The  old 
man  tremblingly  whispered: —  “  He  has 

broken  his  oath  of  chastity.” 


246 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


‘  ‘  Who  saw  this  ?’  * 

From  the  doorway  came  the  words:  '‘I 
testify.” 

Pouska  stood  there  red,  pallid,  beetle-browed. 

From  the  Commissaire: — 

‘  ‘  Repeat  the  words  of  your  plaint  to  me.  ’  ’ 

*  *  I  sw7ear  that  I  saw  the  priest  Ambrose  com¬ 
mit  an  act  of  venery  with  *  *  *  *” 

“With  who?” — from  the  doctor.  The 
man  threw  up  his  head  replying  with  rancorous 
briskness.  “  Oh,  some  woman  upstairs.” 

Again  from  the  doctor: — “  You  don’t  know 
her  ?” 

“No?” 

“  You  are  sure  ?” 

“  But — yes”  and  the  man  Pouska  scowled. 

The  doctor  smiled. 

“You  are  sure  you  saw  the  complete  act 
committed  ?’  ’ 

“  Parbleu” — the  man  laughed  coarsely. 

The  Commissaire  resumed. 


-  -  •»  .4.  _v 


a 


J  V*r 


FATHER  AMBROSE.  247 

“  Who  is  in  the  house  now,  doctor?” 

My  assistant  Eamaitre,  my  sister,  the  priest, 
the  patient  and” — here  an  expression  of  great 
sweetness  grew  into  his  face — “a  wondrous 
newly  born  female  child. 

Turning  his  head  to  him  agento  the  Com- 
missaire  ordered. 

“  Bring  down  the  priest,  Monsieur  Eemaitre, 
Mademoiselle  the  doctor’s  sister.  .  . 

“  Impossible,”  interrupted  Eefort. 

*  ‘  My  sister  and  Eemaitre  are  necessary  to 
the  sick  and  the  priest  is  endormed.  ” 

“  Endormed?” — echoed  several  voices. 

“In  a  mesmeric  trance  then” — explained  to 
Eefort — “  We  must  mount  upstairs.” 

Veaurivaud  arose.  ‘  ‘  Since  it  is  necessary.  ’  ’ 

To  his  agents — “Remain  and  watch  the 

• 

door.  The  holy  Fathers  and  you  sir” — to 
the  witness — “will  come  with  us.”  Monsieur 
Eefort,  please  to  lead  the  way.  He  did  so, 
the  Commissaire  and  Fathers  Villegeant  and 
Eavigerie  closing  the  little  procession. 


248 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


On  entering  tlie  bedroom  the  strange  con¬ 
dition  of  affairs  there  evidently  struck  the 
keepers  of  morals  supernal  and  terrestrial, 
alike  priest  and  police. 

The  representative  of  the  law  gazed  on  the 
peaceful  scene  with  an  astonishment  which, 
though  deftly  concealed  from  ordinal  eyes, 
was  evident  enough  to  the  doctor,  used  so  long 
to  those  hidden  narvine  signs  which  no 
humane  can  quite  suppress.  The  priests  made 
no  attempt  to  hide  their  interested  astonish¬ 
ment.  In  truth  the  scene  was  unusual,  all 
augurous  of  anything  except  crime  or  disaster. 

In  the  bed  apparently  softly  sleeping  the  very 
beautiful  girl — as  she  seemed — reclined,  her 
pose  serene,  breathing  with  gentle  regularity. 
At  her  side  her  hand  clasped  in  his,  the  priest 
— to  all  appearances  as  fast  asleep  in  the  chair 
as  the  girl  was  in  the  bed. 

Near  by  sat  Mademoiselle  L,efort,  a  dormant 

% 

child  in  her  arms.  Ordinarily  there  is  nothing 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


249 


moving  in  the  aspect  of  a  very  young  sleeping 
infant.  But  this  little  baby  girl  had  features  as 
defined  and  expressionable  as  a  child  of  twelve 
months  old.  Another  abnormality  was  that  its 
skin  was  as  fair  as  the  sleeping  mother’s  instead 
of  being,  as  is  customary  with  newly-born  infants 
sanguineous  in  hue  ;  while  the  little  head  was 
covered  with  curling,  sheeny  fair  hair,  fine  and 
shimmering  as  spun  glass.  These  three  faces 
were  nearly  in  a  line.  From  the  budding 
beauty  of  the  innocent  babe  the  eye  gratefully 
rested  on  the  madonna-like  loveliness  of  the 
mother,  passing  thence  to  the  priest  on  whose 
fine  features  was  an  expression  so  celestially 
peaceful  that  doctor  L,efort  himself  felt  strangely 
moved. 

Temaitre  was  standing  near  the  tranced 
Bonnard,  gazing  at  him  evidently  puzzled. 
Sympathetically  every  step  lightened,  every 
face  softened.  Alone  the  accusing  witness, 
last  to  enter  the  bed-room,  seemed  insensible 


250 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


to  the  tranquil  aura  which  emanated  from  the 
three  sentient  creatures,  whose  entities  were 
midway  between  future  and  present,  guarded 
by  that  potential  but  gentle  sleep. 

Tefort  went  to  the  babe. 

“  Fast  asleep,  eh  ?  ” 

“Yes,”  replied  his  sister,  answering  the 
question,  but  looking  toward  the  intruders. 

The  doctor  put  his  hand  on  the  little  one’s 
brow  for  an  instant  and  whispered.  “Sleep, 
sleep.”  He  then  turned  to  his  assistant. 

“  A  little  puzzled,  eh  Temaitre?  ” 

Temaitre  smiled  and  nodded. 

-  “  A  ttendez — wait .  ’  ’ 

Next  he  went  to  the  mother.  Towering  his 
head  he  auscultated  carefully.  As  a  result  of 
his  examination  he  said  to  himself:  “  Tighter, 
but  still  more  than  sleep.” 

Turning  to  the  Commissaire  he  said  sonor¬ 
ously: 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


251 

“You  can  commence  questioning  Monsieur. 
You  might  begin  with  my  assistants.  The 
others  are,  as  you  can  see — asleep — ”  here  he 
smiled —  ‘  *  and  3^011  will  find  that  >rour  ques¬ 
tioning  won’t  wake  them — neither  can  your 
will  or  any  thing  you  can  do.  As  I  am  any¬ 
thing  but  adversative  in  their  connection  I  may 
if  you  wish  come  to  your  rescue  bye  and  b>Te. 
Ordinary  sleep  is  sense-rest;  with  those  three, 
every  somatic  atom,  the  very  mendula  is 
latent,  inert,  torpescent.” 

The  Commissaire’s  examination  of  Amelie 
and  Lemaitre  was  necessarily  found  with  de¬ 
tails  which  multiplied  surprise  with  astonish¬ 
ment  at  every  turn. 

Thus  their  evidence  :  They  were  sent  for 
in  breakneck  hurry.  A  dead  mother  was  to 
yield  her  living  child  under  the  stress  of  knife 
and  saw. 

Even  this  paramount  decision  was  coercive, 
the  reverse  process  having  been  first  selected — 


252 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


embryotomy  by  the  process  of  basiotripsy;  but 
the  priest  had  commanded,  had  used  danger¬ 
ous  means  to  reverse  the  conditions  of  life¬ 
saving — the  child  first,  then  the  mother.  The 
struggle  between  physician  and  priest,  the 
saver  of  life  and  the  saver  of  soul,  was  des¬ 
cribed.  Then  the  apparent  death  of  the  mother 
and  the  decision  to  attempt  the  rescue  of  the 
child  by  the  caesarian  cut — and  then — then 
they  seemed  ashamed  to  testify. 

“Well?” — questioned  the  police  official, 
breathing  stentoriously,  of  hemaitre. 

“He  heard  a  whisper. ’ ’ 

‘  ‘  What  ?  ’  ’ 

‘  ‘  Nature  sides  not  nor  slights  not.  ’  ’ 

“  Where  did  it  come  from  ?  ” 

“  I  do  not  know.” — said  Temaitre. 

“  What  do  you  say  ?  ”  turning  to  Amelie. 

“  I  confirm  that.” 

‘  ‘  You  heard  the  whisper  ?  ’  ’ 

‘  ‘  Distinctly.  ’  ’ 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


253 


“  You  could  not  trace  it  ?  ’  * 

“No.” 

“What  else?” 

‘  ‘  Another  whisper.  ’  ’ 

Fear  not ,  the  tiiumph  of  love  is  at  hand . 

‘  ‘  Then  you  found  out  who  it  was  ?  ’  * 

“No.” 

‘  ‘  But  that  is  invraiseniblable.  The  closest 
translation  would  be  untruthlike.” 

“  It  is  true  !  !  ” 

This  from  both  Amelie  and  Iyemaitre  with 
almost  frenzied  simultaneousness. 

‘  ‘  Afterwards  ?  What  next  ?  ’  ’ 

“That  is  all!  ” 

‘  ‘  All !  What  mean  you  ?  ’  ’ 

‘  ‘  I  lost  consciousness.  The  next  thing  I 
can  recall  is  receiving  an  order  from  the  doctor. 
I  seemed  to  wake  out  of  a  sleep.  The  doctor 
forbade  a  single  question.” 

‘  ‘  And  you  Mademoiselle  ?  ’  ’ 

“  The  same — word  for  word.” 


254 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


Veaurivaud  threw  up  his  hands,  and  swung 
himself  round  to  the  priest’s  who  met  his 
questioning  gesture  with  a  helpless  shrug  of 
the  shoulders;  their  faces  were  eloquent  of 
dismay  nor  was  nascent  appreciation  absent. 
The  witness  had  listened  to  the  gruesome  story 
of  the  fight  eagerly.  Now  even  he  seemed 
abashed. 

The  Commissaire  resumed  his  embryonal  in¬ 
quisition. 

“  Dr.  Tefort  you  have  heard  all  this.  Is  it, 
can  it  be  true  ?  ’  ’ 

“  It  is  true  in  the  minutest  scintilla  of  every 
particular.  ’  ’ 

‘  ‘  But  the  mother  is  alive !  ’  ’ 

-  “  The  mother  is  alive.” 

‘  ‘  The  child  too !  ’  ’ 

‘  ‘  And  the  child.  ’  ’ 

‘  ‘  Can  you  explain  ?  ’  ’ 

“  I  might  relate;  I  could  not  make  you  un¬ 
derstand.  Something  has  happened  outside 


FATHER  AMBROSE 


255 


the  pale  of  probability:  beyond  the  region  of 
ordinary  comprehension;  something  that  will 
be,  or  become,  independent  of  your  power — 
civil,  or  mine — scientific.  Will  you  permit  me 
to  put  a  question  or  two  ?  ’  ’ 

Veauri vaud  passed  his  hand  impotently 
across  his  brow. 

Think!  A  French  commissaire  de  police 
feeling  helpless  and  revealing  his  feelings ! 

“ Allez  allez — go  on.” 

“You  came  here  at  the  instigation  of  that 
man  ” — indicating  the  witness  Pouska. 

“Yes.” 

‘  ‘  May  I  question  him  ? 

“Yes.” 

The  doctor  turned  to  the  witness. 

“  Advance  my  friend.” 

The  man  moved  forward. 

‘  ‘  What  is  you  name  ?  ’  ’ 

‘  ‘  The  police  have  it.  ’  ’ 

“  But  I  have  not.” 


256 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


“  That’s  their  affair.” 

The  doctor  smiled. 

“  Your  name  is  Pouska.” 

The  man  started. 

‘  ‘  What  are  you  ?  ’  ’ 

“  A  gentleman.” 

“  You  lie — you  are  a  servant  in  the  employ¬ 
ment  of — ” 

Pouska  blurted  out: — 

‘  ‘  Well  I  am  in  the  confidence  of  Monsieur 
Leo  de  Vaugars.” 

“  Leo  De  Vaugars,  eh  ?  ” 

“  Yes.” 

“You  probably  know  then  who  that  lady 
is?” 

“Yes,  his  mistress  and” — sneering  and 
glancing  at  the  dormant  Ambrose — 

‘  ‘  Others.  ’  ’ 

‘  ‘  Why  did  you  go  to  the  police  ?  Why 
summon  the  holy  fathers  ?  ’  ’ 

“  Because  I  was  the  witness  of  a  brutal  act.” 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


257 


‘  ‘  Then  you  were  actuated  by  a  sense  of 
decency  and  a  regard  for  public  morals  ?  ’  ’ 

“  Why,  certainly.” 

‘  ‘  Are  you  sure  you  had  no  end  to  serve  ?  ’ 9 
‘  ‘  What  end  could  I  have  ?  ’  * 

“For  instance  the  defamation  of  that 
woman’s  character  ” — pointing  to  the  mother. 

The  man  jerked  his  shoulders  up  towards 
his  ears. 

‘  ‘  Mats,  tete  de  Dieu — Why  ?  ’  ’ 

‘  ‘  Were  you  not  glad  to  see  what  you  saw  ?  ’  ’ 
“Glad?  No.  Indignant  and  disgusted  of 
course.  ’  ’ 

Tefort  made  a  gesture  and  strode  forward 
until  he  was  peering  into  the  man,  Pouska’s 
face  and  said  in  a  low  voice  stinging  with  sar¬ 
casm.  “Why  you  would  lick  the  feculent 
mud  from  your  master’s  boot  and  feel  no  dis¬ 
gust.  What  right  has  a  moujik  serfe  to  indig¬ 
nation  ?  ’  ’ 


258 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


Pouska  was  no  ordinary  man.  He  had 
plenty  of  brute  courage  and  great  nerve  con¬ 
trol,  yet  at  these  words  though  he  didn’t  start, 
though  not  a  muscle  moved,  not  an  eyelid 
quivered,  his  eye-balls  protruded  out  towards 
the  doctor  and  seemed  to  flicker.  The  man 
remained  dumb,  motionless.  The  doctor  had 
seen  and  was  satisfied.  Turning  to  the  Com- 
missaire  he  said: — 

“  Monsieur  le  Commissaire,  as  you  know,  al¬ 
most  anything,  however  strange  it  may  seem, 
is  permitted  when  the  life  of  a  human  being  is 
menaced.  You  are  informed  that  the  priest 
there” — gesticulating — “is  a  lecher  and  an 
oath-breaker;  that  he  and  the  woman  there 
were  seen  in  a  condition  of  complete  denudi- 
tion  lying  side  by  side.  It  is  true  and — it  was 
necessary .”  Swiftly  glancing  towards  Pouska. 
“  You  did  not  speak  of  the  hound.  Had  the 
man  there  reported  accurately  he  would  have 
told  you  that  an  almost  moribund  woman,  a 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


259 


human  shell  with  a  living  kernel  was  borrowing 
vital  heat  from  an  unclothed  man  on  one  side  of 
her  and — parbleu !  an  unclothed  hound  on  the 
other.  By  this  time  M.  Veaurivaud  abandoned 
his  usual  habit  of  theory-forming.  The  case 
was  so  astounding.  He  concluded  to  listen  only 
and  record  evidence.  The  good  priests  had 
never  done  anything  but  patiently  listen ; 
needless  to  say  they  were  brain-numbed. 

It  was  almost  with  lassitude  that  the  Com- 
missaire  asked: 

‘  ‘  Where  is  the  hound  ?  ’  ’ 

The  huge  beast  was  at  length  discovered 
under  the  bed.  No  animals  quiescence  being 
commented  on  it  was  discovered  that  the  dog 
was  dead!  At  this  Pouska  seemed  unre¬ 
strainedly  troubled.  Why  ? 


26o 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

the  surgeon’s  triumph. 

Aee  this  time  every  member  of  the  strangely 
constituted  group,  except  the  sleeping  or  en- 
dormed,  had  remained  standing.  As  if  flexed 
by  the  encounter  of  so  much  that  was  exhaust  - 
ingly  perplexive,  by  common  accord  all 
sought  chairs,  M.  Eemaitre  obligingly  bring¬ 
ing  several  from  adjoining  rooms.  Dr.  Eefort 
alone  remained  erect  and,  as  soon  as  the  others 
were  seated,  began  almost  as  if  he  were  de¬ 
livering  a  lecture. 

{<I  have  said  the  mother  was  dying.  She 
was.  In  any  case  I  apprehend  she  must  have 
fainted.  Eet  us  suppose  that  Father  Ambrose 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


26l 

discovered  her  condition  and,  let  us  say,  de¬ 
termined  to  take  the  mighty  risk  of  acting  as 
he  did  in  the  hopes  of  saving  not  one  life  but 
the  two.  Well  the  two  lives  are  saved. 
Mother  and  babe  both  live.” 

Here  Pere  Favigerie  interjected — 

‘  ‘  If  we  could  only  question  Father  Ambrose 
himself.  ’  ’ 

“  Yes  ” — approved  the  Commessaire — 

“You  said  you  would  help  us,  doctor.” 

“  Can  your  skill  rouse  the  Father  there?  If 
we  could  get  his  version  of  things  from  him¬ 
self — ” 

‘  ‘  I  think  I  shall  have  no  difficulty  in  unen- 
dorming  Father  Ambrose,  but  what  he  will  do 
or  say,  what  his  cerebular  condition  will  be 
when  he  is  roused  I  know  no  more  than  3^011 
3'ourself.  He  was  half  mad  once.  If  he 
awakes  he  may  be  wholly  mad,  or  entirely 
sane. 


262  FATHER  AMBROSE. 

Going  to  Ambrose  he  auscultated  carefully 
and  took  his  pulse.  ‘  ‘  Heart  action  and  pulse 
are  both  normal.  That  this  is  something 
more  than  sleep  I  will  immediately  convince 
you.  Come  yourself  M.  Veaurivaud  to  the 
patient  and  try  and  rouse  him.” 

Notwithstanding  his  nervousness  Veaurivaud 
went.  He  shook  the  apparently  somniferous 
priest  by  the  arm,  pulled  him  this  way  and 
that.  Whichever  way  the  body  was  pulled  it 
went  and  remained  there.  All  the  sustaining 
muscles  and  sinews  seemed  to  be  elastic  and 
yielding,  flexous  rather  than  flaccid,  but  to 
shake  away  the  torpor  which  was  regnant  over 
the  senses  seemed  impossible. 

Dr.  Lefort  watched  the  futile  efforts  of 
V eaurivaud  with  an  amused  smile. 

“  Shout  in  his  ears  ” — was  suggested. 

Veaurivaud  looked  towards  the  bed.  Lefort 
understood  the  action. 

“Don’t  be  afraid.  You  won’t  wake  the 
other  sleepers.  Shout  in  the  Father’s  ear.  You 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


263 


will  see  it  wont  disturb  him.  You  might  fire 
off  revolvers,  guns,  even  cannon  close  by  his 
side;  it  wouldn’t  even  effect  the  regularity  of 
his  breathing.”  Veaurivaud  bawled  in  the 
priest’s  ear;  he  even  went  so  far  as  to  pull  the 
priest  up  bodily  from  his  chair  and  let  him  fall 
back  into  it.  In  vain.  The  endormatiou  was 
in  no  way  disturbed.  The  Commissaire  with¬ 
drew  discomforted. 

“Took  here” — said  the  doctor  baring 
Ambrose’s  arm  and  picking  up  a  pair  of  sharp 
pointed  scissors.  ‘  ‘  This  would  wake  any  mere 
sleeper,  wouldn’t  it  ?  ” 

With  this  he  jabbed  the  points  of  the  scissors 
into  the  soft  flesh  of  the  bared  arm  frequently 
to  a  depth  of  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  inch.  Not 
the  slightest  effect  was  produced.  Drawing 
down  the  sleeve  Lefort  turned  to  Veaurivaud 
and  asked  in  a  tone  that  had  that  a  little  touch 
of  triumph  inseparable  from  the  successful 
performance  of  an  operation,  however  puny, 
by  every  surgeon; — 


264 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


“  Well  my  friend  ?  Are  you  convinced  that 
the  man  sleeps  as  you  never  saw  a  man  sleep 
before  ?  The  resounding  role-call  for  the 
famous  final  judgment  wouldn’t  wake  him. 
Look  here — ’  ’ 

With  his  thumb  he  lifted  an  eyelid  showing 
the  ball  turned  up  in  the  socket  revealing  noth¬ 
ing  but  the  white  which  the  doctor  freely 
touched  with  his  finger. 

“You  can  do  this  with  calalepsy  but  not — 
but  there;  you  are  satisfied,  eh?  ” 

“  Entirely.  That  is  a  kind  of  sleep  I  have 
never  seen.  I’ve  heard  of  mesmeric  sleep  and 
trances  but — ’  ’ 

“  But  being  a  dealer  in  cumulative  facts 
the  ‘what  is’ s’  you  leave  us  scientists 
to  dabble  in  the  ‘what  may  be’s.’  Quite 
right.  Now  I  think  I  shall  have  no  difficulty 
in  waking  the  patient  and  you  shall  see  all 
that  I  do  and  if  you  like  you  shall  see  if  you 
can  arrive  at  similar  results  with  the  mother  of 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


265 


the  babe  there.  Let  me  add  that  the  woman 
has  been  more  or  less  in  the  condition  she  now 
is  ever  since  I  was  called  in.  I  have  never 
yet  heard  a  sound  of  her  voice.  I  do  not  know 
that  any  of  us  ever  will.  My  present  experi¬ 
ment  will  assist  me  to  determine.  Now 
mind  I  do  not  know  whether  I  shall  presently 
rouse  a  raving  mad-man  or  sane  human  being. 
That  responsibility  is  with  you.  ’  ’ 

Going  to  Father  Ambrose  he  settled  him 
comfortably  in  the  chair  laying  the  head  back. 
Retreating  behind  the  endormeur  he  passed 
his  hands,  the  fingers  extended,  from  the 
region  of  the  heart  up  over  the  face  and  head 
throwing  them  out  and  away  right  and  left. 
Repeating  this  action  three  or  four  times  he 
blew  twice  on  the  priest’s  forehead  and  said: — 
‘  *  Awake,  Father  Ambrose !” 

A  group  of  men  in  a  highly  tensile  condition 
watched.  Curiosity  and  fright  were  equally 
assertive.  A  little  start;  the  eyelids  twitched, 


266 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


lifted;  the  arms  were  stretched  out;  a  half 
stifled  yawn;  the  eyes,  wide  opened,  fell  on 
Lefort  and,  in  his  ordinary  calm  voice,  Father 
Ambrose  said  in  a  way  that  was  more  like 
somniloquism  than  speaking — 

“  Ah,  doctor.  I’m  very  sorry,  but  I’m 
afraid  I  fell  asleep.” 

The  tension  relaxed:  one  great  breath  of 
relief  was  taken. 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


267 


CHAPTER  XII. 

A  PRIEST  AND  YET  A  PARENT. 

‘  ‘  Ah  doctor  ?  Did  I  fall  asleep  ? 
It  was  very  reprehensible!  Pray  forgive  me.  ’  ’  A 
pause,  a  quick  snapping  of  the  eyelids  accent¬ 
uating  an  expression  which  indicated  a  reach¬ 
ing  back  of  the  memory  in  search  of  past 
events  ;  an  illumination  of  the  countenance 
which  spoke  as  plainly  as  verbal  utterance 
could  have  done  that  the  search  was  successful 
and  the  sot  disant  endormeur  continued  in 
anxious  tones: — 

“Ah,  the  patient!  Poor  creature,  how  is 
she?” 


268 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


Easily,  naturally,  without  taking  any  note 
of  the  other  occupants  of  the  room,  Father 
Ambrose  rose  and  bent  over  the  sleeping 
mother. 

Lefort  noticed  at  once  that  the  tone  of  voice 
and  manner  of  the  speaker  had  materially 
changed.  The  Father  was  as  Lefort  had 
always  known  him.  Gentle  in  manner,  soft  of 
voice,  humble  and  unassuming — he  exchanged 
glances  with  his  sister  and  Lemaitre.  Ambrose 
was  well  known  to  the  police  as  he  was  to  the 
Reverend  Fathers  who  were  watching  him. 
His  present  manner  was,  therefore,  only  what 
they  expected.  What  Pouska  thought  was  by 
no  means  to  be  gathered  by  any  examination 
of  his  heavy  features. 

Ambrose  lifted  his  eyes  to  Lefort’ s. 

“She  seems  to  be  sleeping  peacefully.” 
Turning  he  became  aware,  evidently  for  the 
first  time,  of  added  occupants  to  the  room. 
With  his  customary  sweet  smile  and  out- 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


269 


stretched  hand  he  went  towards  the  Fathers 
with  ‘  *  Vous  id  vies peres  ?  You  here  my  Fathers? 
and  the  good  Chief  of  Police.”  Next  he 
bowed  to  Pouska — who  it  will  be  remembered 
he  had  not  seen,  so,  of  course,  did  not  know.  ‘  ‘  I 
am  not  surprised  to  see  you  Monsieur  Veauri- 
vaud  nor,  indeed,  you  vies  Peres.  Strange 
things  have  been  happening.  Some  of  us 
here” — his  voice  and  manner  growing  awe¬ 
some — “have  been  holering  in  the  intra- 
mundane  ether  ;  perhaps  indeed  on  the  borders 
of  the  Supernal  or — crossing  himself — the 
infernal  spheres.  I  am  glad  you  have  come 
dear  Fathers.  I  have  been  sorely  troubled.  All 
is  much  clouded  even  yet  ‘  ‘  and  ’  ’ — pressing  his 
palm  between  his  brows — ‘  ‘  I  fell  asleep.  Per¬ 
haps  exhausted  as  well  as  overcome.  But  ‘  ‘  the 
frowning  of  the  brows  disappearing — I  feel  per¬ 
fectly  myself  now,  doctor.  ’  ’  The  Commissaire’s 
eyes  had  not  left  Father  Ambrose  since  he  had 
been  roused.  Veaurivaud  now  rose  and  said — 


270 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


‘  ‘  Will  you  excuse  me  a  moment  ?  ’  ’  Turning 
to  the  priests  he  added  ‘  *  good  Fathers,  would 
you  come  with  me?”  The  Fathers  Favigerie 
and  Villegeant  silently  left  the  room.  The  Com- 
missaire  followed,  closed  the  door  to  within 
an  inch  or  so.  Keeping  his  ear  at  the  space 
he  hurriedly  whispered: — 

‘  ‘  I  want  to  depart  from  our  ordinary  methods 
of  procedure.  Instead  of  questioning  Ambrose 
myself  I  want  you  to  do  .so.  Treat  him  please 
as  if  you  knew  nothing,  and  draw  from  him  his 
version  of  all  the  events  here  he  is  cognizant 
of.  *  ’  The  whispered  direction  had  hardly  taken 
half  a  minute.  They  were  back  in  the  room. 
The  Fathers  Favigerie  and  Villegeant  moved 
their  chairs  near  to  that  occupied  by  Ambrose, 
Bonnard,  placing  them  so  that  the  three  sitters 
formed  the  points  of  a  triangle.  Ambrose 

faced  the  Fathers.  Favigerie  commenced 
with: — “Mon  fils,  some  very  strange  and 
moving  events  have  been  taking  place  here. 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


271 


Rumors  of  them  have  reached  us.  Can 
you  tell  11s  all  about  them?” 

“Assuredly  good  Fathers,  willingly  and 
gladly.  I  have  been  moved  to  great  fear  and 
my  human  compassion  has  been  stirred — stirred 
do  I  say  ?  Volcanized  is  rather  the  word. 
Think,  good  Fathers,  the  supreme  happenings 
there  must  have  been,  when  I,  a  priest,  was 
driven  to  make  an  onslaught  on  my  well- 
beloved  friend  the  doctor  there.  By  Jesu, 
Fathers” — the  utmost  pain  twitching  every 
facial  nerve — ‘  ‘  if  he  had’nt  drugged  me  helpless 
the  savant  would  be  lying  there  with  one  of  his 
own  dreadful  knives  in  his  heart.  Fisten’  ’  -then 
he  related,  to  surely  the  most  attentive  knot  of 
listeners  that  ever  hung  on  the  lips  of  a  speaker, 
the  events  whose  details  have  already  been 
printed  and  perused  by  the  reader.  A  repeti¬ 
tion  would  be  wearisome  to  most  people  even 
if  galvanized  by  Ambrose’s  seemingly  inspired 
language,  and  touchingly  reverential  narration. 


272 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


The  inspiration  that  dictated  the  'Story  o  f  the 
birth  of  Jesus  was  not  missing  in  dealing  with 
events  which  anteceded  the  entry  into  this 
mundane  sphere  of  the  New  Avatar.  Rapidly 
and  concisely  he  referred  to  the  cries  he  had 
heard  ;  his  hurried  entry  into  the  house  ;  his 
discovery  of  the  perishing  human  jailor  of  the 
living  babe.  Here  his  ipissima  verba  must  be 
quoted. 

“  I  am  a  priest  my  Fathers  and  knew  but 
little  of  the  process  by  which  the  ceaseless 
wheel  of  creation  among  living  things  is  kept 
in  motion  by  the  motive  power  whose  furnisher 
is  our  great  God  Himself,  but  I  felt  that  cold 
was  sure  death  to  one  if  not  two  of  His  creatures. 
I  looked  at  the  prostrate  mother.  There  was 
a  great  black  hound  there.  He  helped  me 
decide,  I  bore  the  dying  mother  here.  I 
bared  the  sacred  human  casket.  Her  body  was 
cold,  cold  !  Death’s  icy  fingers  were  surely  on 
her.  In  an  instant  I  had  stripped,  and  the 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


273 


hound  and  I  enwrapped  her  close  and  were 
fighting  the  cold  Terror  King  with  our  own 
warm  bodies.  My  Fathers,  for  a  time  I  felt 
happy,  proud;  important  as  a  sentry  at  some 
dangerous  out-post  on  whose  vigilance  de¬ 
pended — life\  Then  “ — blushing — ”  something 
happened,  whose  telling  is  for  the  confessional 
alone — it  may  have  been  a  grace  of  God — or  a 
devilish,  suggestive  temptation,  but,  my 
Fathers,  though  a  nude  woman  was  in  my 
arms,  pressed  close  to  my  heart,  my  body  is 
still  the  Church’s,  ’  ’  and — rising  and  lifting  high 
his  hand — “  may  the  Almighty  strike  my  life 
away  and  mark  my  soul  for  everlasting  perdi¬ 
tion  if  I  am  not  as  much,  nay  more,  much  more 
his  priest  now,  even,  than  I  was  yesterday!” 

The  impression  these  words  created  was  pro¬ 
found. 

The  spy  Pouska  trembled  from  head  to  foot. 

From  the  bed  proceeded  a  long  drawn  sigh 
which  turned  all  heads  in  the  mother’s  direction. 


274 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


A  smile  of  ineffable  sweetness  formed  on  the 
somnipathist’s  beautiful  features,  her  head 
turned  very  slightly  towards  Ambrose,  then 
towards  her  child.  Ambrose  moved  rapidly  to 
Miss  Lefort  and,  taking  the  babe  from  her 
arms  he  laid  its  little  face  beside  the  mother’s 
whose  lips  rested  on  the  velvet  cheek  for  the 
time. 

“  The  first  time  the  mother  has  moved.” — 
whispered  Lefort  grasping  the  Commissaire’s 
arm.  The  smile  died  away.  Ambrose  carried 
the  child  round  to  the  priests  resuming — ‘  ‘  And 
yet,  my  Fathers,  I  am  drawn  to  this  little  atom 
in  a  way  you  cannot  understand  and  I  cannot 
explain.  This  child  seems  to  me,  feels  to  me” 
— folding  it  in  and  with  his  arms  as  a  mother 
would — “as  if  it  were  my  own.  My  heart 
teems  with  a  paternal  love  for  it!  My  Fathers, 
it  is  a  mystery,  a  miracle  of  God!  I  am  a 
priest  and  yet  I  feel  a  parent ! 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


275 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

THE  MOTHER  SPEAKS. 

Aee  this  time  Pouska  had  remained  a  pas¬ 
sive  spectator.  A  harsh  laugh  from  him  now 
jarred  the  ears  alike  of  official  and  clerics  : 
‘  ‘  The  Father’s  paternal  feelings  are  not  hard  to 
understand!” 

Ambrose  turned  and  looked  gently  at  Pouska 
seeming  to  take  complete  notice  of  him  for  the 
first  time.  He  asked:  “Who  is  this  gentle¬ 
man?”  Pouska  paused  a  moment.  Evidently 
making  up  his  mind  what  was  to  be  his  definite 
course  of  action. 

‘  ‘  I  am  the  man  who  saw  you  commit  the 
act  of  shame  with  the  woman  yonder.  ’ ’ 


276 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


Ambrose  was  undisturbed.  ‘  ‘  Ah!’  ’  he  said, 
‘  ‘  you  must  have  come  in  while  I  was  insen¬ 
sible.  ’  ’ 

“  There  was’ lit  much  of  the  insensible  about 
your  act” — sneered  Pouska.  Apparently  Am¬ 
brose  did  not  hear.  His  eyes  were  on  th 
sleeping  child.  Softly  he  went  towards  the 
doctor’s  sister  and,  with  almost  curiously  minute 
care,  replaced  the  child  in  her  arms.  “Well 
gentlemen,”  enquired  Lefort  “what  is  to  be 
done  ?”  “  There  is  only  one  thing  to  be  done,  ’  ’ 

— intruded  Pouska — ‘  ‘  the  priest  there  will 
have  to  suffer  the  pains  and  penalties  of  his 
act.  Representing  the  owner  of  this  house 
and  the  woman  there  I  have  only  to  .  .  .  .  ” 

“  Not  another  word,”  commanded  Retort, 
“or  I  shall  inform  every  one  here  who  is  the 
owner  of  this  house.” 

“There  is  no  secret  about  that” — blurted 
out  Pouska  in  a  bullying  tone.  ‘  *  My  master, 
Monsieur  Reo  de  Vaugars,  is  nobody  of  impor- 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


277 


tance.  I’m  very  sure  the  police  have  never 
heard  of  him.”  The  doctor  retorted  with  a 
smile  :  ‘  ‘  But  I  think  the  police  are  familiar 
enough  with  the  name  of  Prince  Vakoff !” 

“Dial  de  Dieu“ — exclaimed  Monsieur  de 
Veaurivaud  in  a  tone  of  excitement  at  variance 
with  the  restraint  usually  practised  by  the 
members  of  his  calling.  “Is  this  the  house 
of  Prince  Vakoff  and  is  that  lady  his 

*  ‘  This  is  the  house  of  Prince  Vakoff  and  he  is 
the  father  of  that  child” — pointing  to  the  baby, 
‘  ‘  How  are  you  going  to  prove  that  my 
master,  who  I  declare  to  be  an  ordinary  private 
gentleman,  can  be  any  one  as  important  as — ” 
‘  ‘  Silence !  *  ’  — thundered  the  Commissaire — 
“Monsieur  Pouska  you  are  arrested.  You 
have  evidence  that  the  man  Leo  .  .  .  .  ” 

All  in  the  room  were  now  startled .  The  name 
of  Leo  was  repeated  in  very  soft,  but  exquisitely 
musical  tones  from  the  bed.  The  lips  of  the 
sleeping  mother  were  parted ;  the  eyelids 
were  twitching.  “  Leo,  dear  Leo  !” 


278 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


The  voice  still  sounded  far  away.  Not  alone 
the  eyelids,  but  all  the  facial  muscles  were  in 
movement.  Presently  reflex  nervous  action 
was  traceable  all  over  the  torse,  and,  to  the  ex¬ 
tremities,  next  absolute  tranquility  for  some 
few  seconds,  a  deep  sigh  and  the  beautiful  eyes 
opened.  They  fell  first  on  the  police  and  the 
Fathers  Villegec  it  and  Tavigerie.  She  smiled 
sweetly,  but  said  nothing.  Then  turning  her 
head  a  little  she  discovered  the  child,  and  for 
the  first  time  in  clear  and  pure  musical  tones 
the  true  voice  was  heard.  “Ah!  my  baby! 
My  little  baby  child !”  A  smile  of  ineffable 
sweetness  overspread  the  delicately  lovely 
features ;  her  arms  were  stretched  out  ;  the 
sleeping  infant  was  placed  in  them,  and  folding 
it  to  her  bosom,  the  musical  voice  again  pro¬ 
nounced  the  words — * 1  My  child  ;  my  little 
baby  child!’ * 


FATHER  AMBROSE 


279 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

THE  MISSION  OF  THE  NEW  AVATAR. 

How  wonderful  are  the  processes  of  nature 
even  to  the  ignorant!  To  the  enquirer  and 
student  they  are  necessarily  prodigious.  It 
will  be  remembered  that  this  woman,  in  a  con¬ 
dition  that  needed  the  utmost  consideration  and 
care,  had  been  struck  senseless  by  a  terrible 
shock.  Her  world  of  love  had  crumbled  into 
dust ;  at  the  same  moment  dire  infamy  had 
descended  upon  her.  She  had  more  than 
hovered  between  life  and  death.  She  had 
been  a  moribund  and  a  resuscitant!  Yet  on 
recovering  the  full  measure  of  her  senses  the 
maternal  instinct  was  the  first  to  assert  itself. 


28o 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


The  greatest  of  loves  had  been  her’s  and  had 
betrayed  her  ;  the  sweetest  of  loves  was  hence¬ 
forth  a  puissant  possession,  from  which,  if  she 
were  true  to  the  mighty  human  trust  of  mater¬ 
nity,  she  could  be  dispossessed. 

“You  are  glad  you  have  your  baby?” — 
asked  Doctor  Tefort. 

“Oh,  yes  doctor;  so  glad,  so  very,  very 
glad.  ’  ’  She  lightly  brushed  the  infant’s  cheek 
and  ear  with  her  lips  as  she  uttered  that  low 
purring  sound  which  mothers  keep  for  their 
young. 

‘  ‘  How  did  you  know  I  was  a  doctor?  ’  ’ 

She  appeared  to  be  gradually  remembering. 
“  I  don’t  know  yet,  quite,  but  you  are  a  doctor 
and  helped  my  baby  into  the  world  and  I  will 
always  love  you  for  that.  And  that’  ’ — looking 
up  at  Miss  Tefort — “  is  your  .sister!’’ 

Constance  was  now  tying  on  her  side  the 
child  cradled  in  her  arms.  The  police,  priests 
and  Pouska  stood  near  the  bottom  of  the  bed, 


FATHER  AMBROSE). 


281 


while  Ambrose  and  Temaitre,  being  on  the 
further  side,  were  behind  her. 

“Your  voice  is  very  strong,  you  feel  well, 
don’t  you  ?” 

“  Quite  well.  You  know  I  am  to  be  spared 
all  accouchement  sickness.  You  will  find  when 
you  examine  me  presently  that  every  organ 
that  was  strained,  or  displaced,  is  now  in  its 
normal  condition.”  She  touched  her  side — 
“  You  have  bound  me  I  see.  It  was  hardly 
necessary.  I  have  been  away  with  the  astral 
Bygas  and  they  have  tended  me,  but  they 
used  your  hands,  because  I’m  flesh  and  they 
needed  flesh  hands ;  and  they  made  you 
cleverer  than  you  ever  were  before — and  they 
said  you  were  clever  too — but  in  the  boundless 
univercoelum  where  I  have  been  there  are 
myriads  of  Byga  healers,  and  they  all  concen¬ 
trated  and  focused  on  you  while  you  tended 
me.  Then  when  you  had  replaced  the  strained 
organs  they  drenched  me  with  Nirvana,  so  I  am 
well.  The  Bygas  are  good  doctors.” 


282 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


Fefort  smiled  and  nodded.  ‘  ‘  I  understand.  ’  ’ 
Glancing  at  Ambrose  lie  perceived  that  the  priest 
who,  in  common  with  all  present,  was  an  atten¬ 
tive  listener,  seemed  an  aural  recipient  of 
expected  rather  than  astonishing  revelations. 
All  the  others  were  silent  wonderers. 

At  this  moment  Constance  for  the  first  time 
noticed  the  presence  of  the  Commissaire, 
the  Fathers  Villegeant  and  Lavigerie  and 
Pouska.  Her  eyes  flashed  and  fixed  them¬ 
selves  on  him.  Placing  the  infant  on  the  side 
of  the  bed  nearest  Ambrose,  and  still  keeping 
her  eyes  on  the  man  she  reached  out  a  hand, 
caught  up  a  large  silk  shawl  that  hung  over 
the  back  of  a  chair  near  her,  threw  it 
round  her  and  lifted  herself  with  a  .single 
movement  high  in  the  bed.  Doctor  Lefort 
instantly  put  out  a  warning  hand,  but,  then 
remembering  that  she  had  announced  herself 
free  from  any  danger  of  sudden  movement, 
withdrew  his  arm. 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


283 


“You  here,  Pouska.  Ah,  now  I  remember 
everything.  It  must  have  been  you  who 
brought  the  Count’s  letter?” 

“It  was” — surlily  acquiesced  the  man. 

‘  ‘  How  dare  you  use  that  tone  of  insolence 
to  me  ?  ’  ’ 

1 

“  I — I — saw  you  ” — blurted  Pouska. 

‘  ‘  Saw  me  ?  Where  ?  ’  ’ 

“  With  the  priest.” 

Constance  uttered  a  cry  of  joy. 

“  Ah,  the  good  priest  that  saved  my  life 
where — ah” — turning,  “  )^ou  are  there  good 
Father.  ’  ’  She  held  her  two  hands  out  towards 
him.  Ambrose  gave  her  his  hand  with  a 
smile.  She  drew  him  towards  her  so  that  he 
had  to  sit  on  the  bed  near  at  her  side,  kissed 
the  hand  she  held  then  laid  it  on  the  child.” 

‘  ‘  So  then  there  is  trouble  because  of  the  way 
the  holy  Father  had  to  .save  my  life,  and  that 
is  why  the  other  priests  and  the  Commissaire 
are  here.  Pouska  the  low  human  dog  of  a  high 


284 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


lordly  hound  brought  them.”  This  was  said 
half  to  herself.  She  reclined  back  on  the 
pillows,  adding.  “Messieurs,  what  the  Father 
did  was  necessary  to  save  my  life.  There 
should  be  no  immodesty  in  the  presence  of 
death  ;  I  feel  no  shame  in  what  the  Father  did, 
for — there  was  no  shame. 5  ’ 

At  this  point  Ambrose  rose  and  began  speak¬ 
ing. 

‘  ‘  Here  almost  at  the  birth-act  of  this  child 
let  its  work  begin.  You  here  shall  receive  the 
first  import  of  the  mighty  mission  of  that  little 
sleeping  child  .  Know  then  the  world  is  so 
vile  it  needs  another  Saviour.  The  first  was 
Christ;  there  lies  the  second  Saviour,  but  it  is 
a  woman !  Her  mission  is  to  preach  and  teach 
the  true  religion  of  human  brotherly  love.  I  ' 
am  her  guardian,  the  servant  now  of  a  power 
that  will  supplant  the  great  church  itself!  ” 
Gradually  as  Ambrose  spoke  he  seemed  to  gather 
a  strength  of  utterance  and  a  sublimity  of  mien 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


285 

v  V  .  •  ■  }  ' 

that  became  less  and  less  earthly.  He  con¬ 
tinued:  “The  mother  there  has  told  you  she 
has  visited  the  univercoelum  of  the  astral  bodies 
(  and  remembers  it  !  I  shall  be,  in  my  turn,  an 
[  understanding  servant  of  the  unseen  inhabi¬ 
tants  of  space.  The  doctor  there  is  one  al- 
I  ready,  and,  together,  we  have  to  protect  the 
I  mother  and  rear  the  child,  ministering  to  the 
I  fleshly  envelope  while  the  Astrals  use  our 
organs  to  brain  its  mind.  A  few  hours  ago  I 
was  a  simple  priest.”  His  voice  rang  out — 
“Fathers,  that  church  is  inimical  to  the  church 
of  God,  the  church  of  Creation.  Celibacy  is 
a  crime  that  outrages  nature  and  nature  came 
'  with  creation  which  is  God.  The  New  Avatar 
I  there  will  teach  that.  The  world  confounds 
f  the  sweetness  of  modesty  with  the  prurient 
'  abomination  of  mock  pudicity.  The  child 
1  there  when  grown  to  woman’s  estate  in  her 
|  own  faultless  person  will  show  this  world  what 
hold  the  beauty  of  a  perfect  woman,  clothed 


1 


I 


286  FATHER  AMBROSE. 


only  with  the  innocence  of  exquisite  guileless¬ 
ness,  can  take  on  wholesome  minds,  and  the 
thronged  theatre  shall  feel  the  supremacy  of 
nature’s  master  hand  and  know  no  lust!  ” 

‘  ‘  The  love  that  makes  man  wish  to  help  his 
fellow — She  shall  teach;  the  love  that  makes 
the  rich  share  his  surplus  with  the  needy — - 
She  shall  teach;  the  cleanly  wholesomeness  of 
free  and  natural  love — She  shall  teach;  and 
that  marvelous  process  whereby  life  springs 
with  convulsive  joy  from  the  union  of  the 
sexes — She  shall  teach  !  That  is  the  mission 
of  the  New  Avatar!  ” 

The  last  few  sentences  were  uttered  in  tones 
almost  of  agony,  terrible,  yet  so  tender  that 
they  sank  like  the  entrancing  harmony  of  a 
tragic  hymn  into  the  uttermost  depths  of  the 
listeners  present.  Ambrose  stood  spell-bound, 
his  eyes  wide  with  worshiping  exaltation.  As 
his  voice  faded  into  silence  Ambrose’s  unearthly 
eyes  were  raised  in  ecstasy.  Suddenly  there 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


287 


was  darkness,  an  illimitable  waste  of  impene¬ 
trable  blackness.  Presently  there  seemed  to 
be  a  motion,  the  blackness  began  to  circinate 
within  itself  as  it  were.  The  room  became 
charged  with  agasa,  or  magnetism,  and  soon 
the  minutest  spark  of  life  conceivable  was 
whirling  amidst  the  blackness.  The  next 
moment,  as  if  it  had  percussed  against  some 
obstruction  it  stopped,  scintillated  and  flashed 
into  a  violet  light  illumining  a  limitless  space, 
which  can  only  be  compared  to  the  heavens  on 
some  ice-clear  night  wherein  no  star  remained. 
An  indescribable  disturbance  agitated  the  air; 
while  a  perception  of  sound  rather  than  sound 
itself  wailed  in  the  ears  of  the  listeners,  some¬ 
thing  between  a  long-drawn  sigh  and  the 
moaning  of  the  wind.  Next  out  of  the  violet, 
ether  three  forms  slowly  gathered,  like  gossa- 
mere  cobwebs  laid  one  on  the  other.  Grad¬ 
ually  it  was  possible  to  distinguish  the  nude 
figure  of  Ambrose  clasping  close  the  naked  Con- 


288 


FATHER  AMBROSE. 


.stance  and  holding  on  high  in  his  hand  the 
child.  Waves  of  translucent  carmine  light  < 
played  about  the  figures  as  they  gradually  de¬ 
veloped,  until  a  vision  of  the  most  sublime 
beauty  was  completely  revealed.  A  mighty 
chorus  of  voices,  apparently  from  some  incredi¬ 
ble  distance,  out  of  the  circumambient  violet- 
ether  barely  made  audible  these  words:— 

‘  ‘  STUDY  THE  MISSION  OF  THE  NEW 


AVATAR!” 


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